Hadrilkar - The Collar of Servitude
by DarionDamage
Summary: A young Dark Elf, a commoner from the poor quarters of Hag Graef, gets a chance to advance in society and to earn glory in battle as a liegeman of a powerful Dreadlord. He doesn't know yet that the Lord is a Druchii Anointed, one of the survivors of old Nagarythe who once fell prey to the lure of Slaanesh... And when he finds out, it might already be too late.
1. 1 - Leaving the Dark Crag

**Part I: Leaving the Dark Crag, **

_...or: The Call of the Unknown_

The ever growing labyrinth city, in its heart the towers that once were brought across the ocean by powerful magic, was even darker and colder tonight. Or at least, so it seemed to Makareth, while he was running through the streets, his heels clicking on the cobble stones, his face covered with a simple metal mask that was already showing signs of rust from the corroding breath of the foundries. His family wasn't able to afford golden or silver caedlin, even thinking about such things was ridiculous. Well, luckily, this despicable life of poverty would end tonight. He rushed to the door of his father's shop, knocked on the door violently, and looked around him, his chest heaving, heart beating so loud that he was afraid it would be heard within three steps around him. He squinted his eyes, poisonous air stinging them, and tried to make out shadowy figures in the darkness. He heard a high-pitched laugh of a child behind an iron-webbed window in a house next to that of his family, the sound of a whip hitting skin in the cellar across the street, and the muffled cries of agony, in a coarse, non-elven voice of a human slave. He heard no steps. No one seemed to have followed him.

Two opened the door, much too late, her face red from the heat inside the house. Makareth shoved her aside, angry at her being so slow, and stepped into the softly lit, almost cozy, shop. The sales room was empty, which was no wonder considering the late hour, but the oil lamp on the counter, that Two had brought with her to open the door, shone its irregular light on the abacus, the accounting scrolls, the money box and the wooden display in which hair strands, dyed in different colors, from bright red to deepest black, were carefully placed next to samples of lead-white skin bleach and bone-gray pigment powder, berry- and ocher-based lip paste, carbonic eyelid paint and salves against itch, for faster wound healing and against scar inflammation. Oh how he hated all of this!

"Would young master like to eat something?" Two was looking at him shyly, her freckled, big-pored nose, covered with peachy make-up paste from their own production, was twitching, as she took in the smell of foreign perfume and smoke that lingered around him. Two was young, but she had learned Druhir faster than One, and more importantly, she was able to speak it. Contrary to One, who was still only nodding or shaking his head in response, because One's tongue was removed by his former owner. Still, it sounded wrong and unpleasant to Makareth' ears when the human slave said something.

He shook his head. "No. Go and continue your work." He kept his voice calm. No reason to scare her, she might run to his father and tell him something is wrong. Two was his father's favorite new toy, ever since mother had gotten herself killed during Khaine's celebration days two years ago, so the old man might even listen to her. Despite the fact that he still didn't even give her a name. What kind of idiot called his slaves with numbers when he only owned two?

Two smiled. "Yes, young master." Her pupils were dilated every time she looked at Makareth, and now, in the scarcely lit room, her usually blue eyes seemed black holes.

He shivered. "Go!"

She left the lamp on the table and disappeared into the cellar, where One was probably stirring some stinking mixture in the big cauldron, and Makareth' father cursing about the miserable quality of some ingredient, like he always did.

The Druchii were a proud, cruel, ruthless race, warriors and marauders, that kept slaves for working in their mines and foundries and to do all manual labor. They were people who lived only for their pleasure, and to serve Khaine, the God of Murder. Yes, that is what everybody said. But for Makareth, the reality was much less noble and interesting. Yes, he was trained to fight – and he was a good fighter, the best in his regiment – but that training only took place occasionally, in the times that he wasn't forced to sell make-up and hair dye in his father's shop. Yes, he had been in a war. Once. It was when that bat-shit crazy High Lord that everybody called Darkblade, which meant bastard, behind closed doors, marched against his own home city with an army from Naggor. He leaned against a wall, as the memory washed over him like cool, tingling waves. Till now, it was the most wonderful memory of his whole life, and he didn't allow himself to savor it often, to not let its intensity fade with use.

Makareth' regiment was not at all successful – indeed, the Captain, who was Makareth' grandfather, was slain, and his cousins and uncles and whoever else they were took their feet in their hands and ran. It was understandable, too – grandfather's head was bit off by a freaking nauglir. And fighting against a nauglir close range, if you are on foot, is a really bad idea. Makareth didn't flee. He had tried to hit the guy who was sitting on the reptile with his spear, but the movement of those in front of him simply dragged him along and toppled him over.

Everything went black for a moment, and when he woke up, he saw the clawed, colossal paw of the Cold One digging into the bloody mud next to him and heard a sound of the beast's jaws crushing bones that he feared, for a moment, could be his own. The helmet had rolled from his head when he fell, and the sound and the smell of the battlefield, metal and leather and sweat and torn intestine, eerie shrieking of the Witch Elves, roaring war cries of the commanders, dying screams of everybody, was at once much closer, louder, more intense. He realized that he was still whole, his legs and arms feeling strangely full of vigor. His spear was lying just three or four steps away. He curled himself into a ball, pushed his feet into the dirt, shot like a spring from under the nauglir's belly and grabbed the weapon. A strange, pleasant shiver went through his body, a sensual feeling, like he was alive for the first time, newborn, and with a triumphant laugh he plunged the metal blade of his spear into the first of the many warriors from Naggor that were surrounding him now.

He would have died, and that was what he had thought at that moment, and what he had wanted. A life in the commoner quarters of Hag Graef, closer to the foundries, poisoned by their waste, was not something he had dreamed about. Being killed in a faceless regiment of relatives whom he hated, because even they looked down on him and his father was not an option, neither. But going berserk alone in a sea of enemies, slaying his way through them, and finally dying from a especially deadly hit that he couldn't dodge… That was what he considered an appropriate death.

Killing and dodging, that was what he was really, really good in.

He punched the spear into the abdomen of the crossbow-wielding dark elf in front of him, pushing him onto the men behind him, let go of the spear and drew his sword. A bolt flew past his left ear, but he didn't hesitate. With a launch forward, he brought his sword down on the arms holding the repeater crossbow that had just shot that bolt. The opponent was quick. He jumped back, let the crossbow fall, reaching for his own sword, but Makareth was already closer, his sword flying back up and slicing into the neck of the unlucky marksman. A blood shower painted his shoulder red as he used the dying elf as a shield against the next rain of bolts and then tossed him aside. The captain of the crossbow regiment attacked him from the side. Makareth parried the blow with the sword, metal against metal singing a cacophony, forcing the captain to change his position to keep the stable stance and with this move the shield aside enough to reveal a view of chain mail and embroidered khaitan, and kicked the enemy in the stomach, sending him to the floor.

He had cut himself through about five or six opponents when suddenly they retreated, an empty circle around him, panic on their faces. He turned around, drunkenly, his blood singing a song of self-praise in his temples, and looked into the sharp-fanged, ugly snout of the Cold One that was, just moments ago, munching on his grandfather.

But the nauglir stood still. Probably already full with meat from the battlefield, it obeyed its rider, and just moved its huge head up and down, threatening the opponent in its animal body language, breathing foul air in Makareth' face.

He had looked up and saw into the face of the Cold One Knight, an enemy, and something happened. He never understood if he was too surprised by the other's behavior to react or if it was some spell he was under, but at that moment the stench of the battlefield was replaced by an indescribable scent that somehow reminded him of his only visit to the Houses of Flesh with his older Cousin, and yet was different. The noises had subsided, and his sight was suddenly narrowed, the Knight being the only thing he could still see, nauseating heat rising in the back of his head. His sword trembled in his hand.

The enemy Knight – no, an enemy Champion, Makareth understood, this was no usual warrior! - looked at him. A pale face, high cheekbones and thin, dark lips, skin already covered in deep creases of age but stretched around the skull like that of a dried corpse, with burning green eyes and a smile full of teeth filed to sharp points - the Naggorite was both repulsive and strangely beautiful, in a way a shark, a wolf or a sea dragon could be beautiful. His armor was covered with blood, but under the red mist, there was purple and black lacquered metal, full of spikes and adorned with golden ornaments, and it reflected the deadly dance of the warriors all around, shadows and lights moving along the surface in a hypnotizing flicker. The enemy wore no helmet, and his long hair, black and graying strands, was held together by a golden comb that had the form of a thin, horizontal, crescent moon, and the same pattern was crowning the hilt of the long sword in the Naggorite lord's hand. Around the blade, which seemed to radiate heat, the air was scintillating with fiery sparks, and the blood of those the Champion killed rose from the hot metal as red vapor.

This sword didn't move to chop off the head of the young Druchii standing in front of the Knight's mount. Instead, the Knight bellowed something that sounded completely gibberish to the stunned Makareth, to the regiment, and the Naggorites left, retreated, fled, even. The nauglir jumped forwards, so that the young dark elf had to throw himself into the dirt once more to survive, and then the enemy Champion was gone, and the spell was broken.

The forces of Hag Graef moved up, and Makareth found himself among his own people, once again fighting, as if nothing had happened, joining another regiment of spearmen, and following his people into a bloody, hard-earned victory.

Everything about this memory was perfect – from the feeling of his own blood pulsing through his veins while his sword tore into the flesh of the enemies, the sensations that imprinted themselves on his soul, the sight, smell and sound of battle, to the wondrous meeting with the enemy knight.

Yes, he was supposed to hate Naggor, out of loyalty to his city. The feud between Hag Graef and the rebellious Black Ark was reality. But so was the fact that the feud was actually something only the nobles cared about. For the commoners, it was the taste of the blood that mattered, the rage and the holy dance of Khaine. It was about religion, not about politics. Naggor didn't matter. Nor did Hag Graef, or the Drachau, or the Vaulkhar's bastard son.

What mattered were skill, and passion, and faith to the God of the Bloodied Hand. The enemy Knight was a Champion, a great warrior, a leader of the enemy forces. And that, without question, meant that he was dear to Khaine. Khaine didn't distinguish by the place where you were living, at least so Makareth thought.

So instead of feeling ashamed that he was spared by the enemy Champion, Makareth felt chosen – as if the enemy had considered him almost an equal. When he remembered the burning of the green eyes of the Cold One Knight, he liked to interpret that look as approval, acceptance of a worthy rival. After all, the Naggorites have fled after that, didn't they?

Makareth closed his eyes, locking the warm light of the oil lamp out, and basked in the almost tangible visions of the battlefield. Remembered the sound his spear, and later his sword, made, when it went between armor plates or tore through chain. The force he had to apply then for it to penetrate the soft, heavy flesh behind the armor, too, the rich, metallic smell of blood and its beautiful, surreal color, when he pulled the spear out, dislocating ribs or dragging out loops of intestine. The vibration around him, a blade cutting the air in two, when an enemy countered the blow, when Makareth ducked or jumped or danced to the side, dodging easily, while the elves around him fell. The fever that had him in its grip.

The memory was wonderful, no, it was ecstatic, and he felt his body react physically. It was an excitement similar to that which he had learned to know in the Flesh House, when he saw a beautiful, gold-haired slave girl from the far-away Ulthuan dance on a table at which two drunken nobles sat.

He sighed. This other memory, less intense than the other one, but of an exquisite, delicate sweetness, flooded his mind, and he recalled all the details. One of the men had caught her slender ankle with a gauntleted hand, the hard metal of the rivets on it digging into the tender skin and, laughing about a silly joke, bit into the back of her foot with his filed teeth. She continued dancing, in her oneiric state, her ocean eyes empty from any emotion but drugged, stupefied tiredness, her movements losing not a bit of their grace, despite her foot being held captive. The Druchii licked away the tiny droplets of blood his teeth had drawn and pressed the sole of her foot flat onto the table. His other hand drew a thin dagger in a fast movement, hardly visible until it pierced the bright high elven flesh and pinned the small ivory foot of the slave to the wooden surface with it.

The dance had ended abruptly, the threshold reached, the drugs not enough to override the pain the high elf was feeling, and she shrieked, trying to pull her foot free, hurting herself more in the process, then slumped down and tried to pull the dagger out with trembling fingers. The dark elf noble slapped her cheek with the gauntleted hand, and she stopped moving, her drugged mind finally understanding that struggling would do her no good. Slowly, carefully and quivering, she stood up again. And continued to dance, keeping her pinned foot on the table, but moving the rest of her body, willowy, enchanting and graceful once again.

Makareth had almost choked on his wine from this sight, folding himself in half, the heat in the hardened flesh between his legs more surprising to him than it was to his cousin, who laughed and joked about Makareth being an inexperienced virgin. It was true, back then. It was still true, now. His father did not share Two, the old egoist, marriage was not something Makareth was interested in yet, and the lack of gold was an obstacle between Makareth and the fine goods of the Houses of Flesh. Of course, even an hour with the high elven slave would be much too expensive for both Makareth and his older cousin, and they had settled for more wine and watching nauglir fights.

But now it was all in his past. His future would bring more of those things he wanted most: glory, battle, beautiful slaves. And maybe they would be other, even more wonderful, yet unknown pleasures. His time selling hair dye would end this evening. He opened his eyes again. Briefly, he thought about taking some coins out of the money box, but rejected the idea. He walked across the room, passing chests, cupboards and display cases with more jars and boxes, salves and paints. He tried to remember his life here, in the past years. His childhood, his youth. He wasn't able to. Not that he had forgotten it – he hardly ever forgot anything, memories were the only treasures of his life apart from his weapons and his chain mail coat – but there was a new, very powerful, strikingly unbelievable, memory connected with the sight of this room, a memory that interfered with all those from before.

It was so unbelievable that he stopped walking when he thought of what happened earlier today.

It had been an unpleasant day, without snow but with an icy wind that howled in the chimneys and around the towers, and Makareth was in his usual, rather depressed mood, which was not made better by the fact that his father had sent him for a visit to his father's younger sister. The old man was indebted to her, and. But the idiot still tried to ask her for more gold. Being a Beastmistress, Makareth' aunt did have a significantly higher income than her other siblings, but this didn't make her any less avaricious. So his visit ended up rather unsuccessful. His aunt had coldly told him that should he appear on her doorstep once again without the right amount of gold, she would whip him bloody, sprinkle salt on the welts, lock him in a cage and hang it down from her balcony until his father would pay back all his debts.

Sadly, Makareth suspected that his father would rather sell him to his creepy aunt completely than pay her back – how should he, after all, when all the money the old man earned with his small hair dye business went into wine, betting and gambling?

He had opened the shop earlier than usual – usually they only started selling in the late afternoon and closed the shop after midnight – and hoped to see some customers before the old man would wake up from his tormented drunkard sleep. If he was able to make some sales without his father watching – and stealing money from his own business to bring it to the gambling dens –, he would put some of the money away so that he could slowly collect the complete amount to pay back the whip-swinging harpy of an aunt.

And there had been customers, though not many. A spindly thin, gloomy artist from the inner City, who wanted a lot of lead-white paste, had looked at him silently while he was searching for a jar big enough. A lesser noble came with an entourage of four dark elves dressed in his colors and bought some salve for wound healing and two vials of perfume. And then, the shop stayed empty. Even after the time that his father usually woke up. Makareth had ordered One and Two to begin with preparation to make more lead-white make-up and was thinking about sorting the boxes with the disinfecting and cooling salves on their shelves properly when suddenly the door bell jingled again. Makareth looked up, and froze.

On the door step stood the Naggorite lord, purple and black armor with its spikes and golden ornaments reflecting the bleak light of a dying winter day, the golden crescent moon shining in his hair, the cruel shark-smile and the green burning eyes, all there.

Makareth's heart had leaped. What was the Naggorite doing here?

The sound of the heavy spurs on the boots of the lord, as he stepped closer, had woken the young Druchii up again.

"How may I serve you, noble lord?" He had bowed his head just a bit, keeping an eye on the guest.

What the Naggorite said now was no gibberish. "I wish to buy eyelid paint, in black and blue. Lip paste, in red and black. And black tattoo ink. Do you have tattoo ink here?" His voice was low and purring, and it made something in Makareth spine vibrate unpleasantly.

"Yes, Milord." The young Druchii went through the room and collected the various items. Put them on the counter, took the abacus, counted and named the price.

The foreign Lord smiled his eerie smile and put three golden coins onto the counter, twice the amount that Makareth had asked for. And spoke again. "Yes, you may."

"May what, Milord?" Makareth was confused, his pulse was quickened, and he suspected that he had lost control of his facial muscles for a moment, probably looking like a complete idiot, because the Naggorite lord laughed.

"I remember you. Good handling of the sword. Fast, intuitive reactions. Handsome face." The Naggorite squinted his eyes, green fires blazing no less. "Serve me. You may."

"Milord, I…" Makareth was completely at loss. What did the foreigner want from him? "What do you intend to imply with that, Milord?"

"I am taking you as a liegeman, foolish child. Follow me." The Knight took the paints and the ink and walked out of the shop.

Makareth stared at the Naggorite's back for about the time he needed to breathe in once, then closed the shop and ran after him. Being a liegeman of a Champion, probably a High Noble? It meant gold, glory, battle. Maybe even a title! Even though the Knight was from Naggor, this here was probably Makareth' only chance to make his fortune, and he was not intending to let go of it.

And now he was back. Only for a few moments, the time he would need to get some clothing, his chain mail coat and his sword. He went through the door behind the counter and then up the stairs, into their own tiny armory. He found what he was searching for quickly. Instead of carrying it, he put the chain mail coat on. It hurt the skin on his back and shoulder where the Naggorite had tattooed him in the afternoon, three slender, dark dragons curling their tails around each other's necks. It was not the Naggorite's crest, and was not needed as a symbol of belonging. As a sign of being the noble's liegeman, Makareth now wore a heavy, golden ornamented collar with curved ends, the hadrilkar – like he has always dreamed to do. The tattoo that was stinging and pulsing painfully under the metal rings, despite the three layers of cloth and leather in between had been merely a test.

"Prove me that you want it." The Naggorite had put the paints on a stone table in front of a big copper mirror. He stayed at a house of one of the nobles of Hag Graef, in a room far more adorned that anything Makareth had seen, with tapestries on the walls showing ancient battles, statues of sorceresses and dragons holding basins with greenish burning oil in hands or paws, and an enormous bed with covers that looked like silk, and a blanket sewn together from many white polar fox furs. It was ridiculously hot – the room had a fireplace in which the fire had probably been burning for hours. Now it was just glowing coals. Makareth looked around at all this luxury and felt incredibly jealous, jealous to the point of stomach ache.

"Take off your coat."

He had obeyed, a bit warily.

The lord had clapped into his hands, and a human female that had been sitting on the floor at the side of the bed rose to her feet. She had been sitting there so still that Makareth hadn't noticed her.

"Now your tunic." The Naggorite had gestured to the slave to help him with the armor, and she walked towards him, unusually slowly for a slave, with a hip-swaying, seductive pace, and began unbuckling the belts of his breastplate.

Makareth stared at this surreal scene. Did the Naggorite want to seduce him? The idea of such physical contact between members of the same gender itself didn't offend Makareth. Though the choice of long-time partnership more often occurred between members of opposite genders, the other version was not unheard of, and momentary lust could bring together people regardless of gender anytime. Besides, Makareth had never thought about his own tastes in these things anyway, being a virgin.

But obviously, this was not the way one would usually hire liegemen.

The slave girl skillfully took off the Naggorite's armor and moved across the room to where the young Druchii stood. Makareth couldn't help but notice that she was very attractive for a human, with flowing, dark blonde hair, a petite figure, with skin like milk. Her whole fingers, not only the nails, were painted red, as well as her lips and nipples, and the only clothing that she wore was a silken scarf around her hips and a collar of soft black leather around her neck. Not a single scar tainted her beauty. A strange little smile was on her plump mouth. She didn't speak, just touched the hem of Makareth' tunic, and then helped him take it off. Her hands stroked the bare skin on his chest and abdomen, soft like feathers, and it gave him goosebumps despite the heat. Then she returned to her lord, who now was half-lying, half-sitting on the bed, and knelt before him.

"The needles. Water. Spirits." The Knight had spoken softly, the low purr again, and the girl had shivered, as if she was feeling pleasure alone from hearing his words. She had stood up and went over to a big wooden chest, opened it, took out a metal bottle and a small leather case, and she had put both items on the bed in front of her master. Then she had left the room.

"Come here."

Makareth had obeyed reluctantly, curiosity and the wish to not disappoint his future liegelord taking over against fear of the unknown and mistrust.

The lord had gestured for the young elf to sit down on the bed. "I will paint you. To see how much you really want to serve me. If you can't take this little bit of pain, if you are worried about my mark being on you forever… Then you can as well go now. I don't need a liegeman who would hesitate to give his life for me."

Makareth had stared at the fine, smoke grey robe that the Lord had been wearing under the armor, counted the dozens of battle scars visible through the half-transparent fabric on the wiry, slim body of the Naggorite, hardly able to digest what he just heard. "My life?..."

"I don't want to take your life, foolish boy. You will be there to protect mine. Don't you understand even a simple play of words?"

The young Druchii had shaken his head.

"I am called Lykaon The Enchanter." Green fires, shark smile. "And you? What is your name, my liegeman?"

"Makareth, Milord."

The slave girl had returned, with a crystal bowl full of clear water.

"Good, turn around, Makareth from Hag Graef. I will start with your shoulder blade. Is there any motif you would prefer?"

It had lasted for hours. The pain began as almost nothing but became more intense later, and a hardly bearable mixture of itch, burning and stinging towards the end, when the Naggorite filled in the black color on the scales of two of the dragons. Makareth didn't flinch, but sometimes a ragged breath escaped his lungs, and he hated himself for being such a child when it first happened. In the reaction of the Naggorite, though, there was no disdain. Instead, Makareth heard him making a soft, low sound, somewhere halfway between purr and moan. And the next sting of the needle was even more painful.

At first, it confused Makareth. But after a while, the young Druchii understood that the Naggorite lord enjoyed tattooing him. More precisely, he enjoyed it to see the young elf suffer pain for him, subjecting himself to this treatment by his own will. Makareth smiled. This sacrifice to prove that he was worthy to be the Lord's liegeman – it was far more pleasant than cutting one's own hands on the place before the Drachau's palace to prove one's loyalty. Far more personal, too. The other dark elf's hands, hard, calloused fingertips and sharp nails, were on his hurting skin. The needle which drew dragons on his shoulder and back was lead by the Naggorite, a small iron connection between them. He finally was someone, not just a faceless commoner, a pawn offer in a spearman regiment, a seller of hair dye. He was the lord's liegeman. And with these thoughts, he had leaned into the biting touch of the needle willingly.

He sighed, closing the door behind him. He didn't say goodbye to his father, and he didn't look back. Tonight, the Naggorite, who had arrived to Hag Graef as a diplomat a week ago, would leave again. The lord planned to go to Clar Karond and hire a skiff for some slave hunting, and he mentioned he intended to take Makareth with him.

Adventures, he smiled to himself. Battles. Pleasures. The world awaited him. The pain on his inflamed shoulder and the reassuring weight of the golden hadrilkar around his neck sang to him that he finally had done something right.


	2. 2 - Through the Tunnel

**PART II: Through the Tunnel**

_or: The Hero starts his Travel_

A Cold One. It was a real, living, monstrous nauglir.

Makareth stared at it in disbelief. "This can't be true."

Hadranir, who had lead Makareth to the stables to show him the mount, snorted. "Well, you better believe it. I'll bet you'll have fun rubbing the poison all over your skin."

Hadranir was one of the other liegemen of the Naggorite lord. When Makareth came back to the house where the lord was staying, the tall, slender Druchii stood at the front door, speaking to one of the guards.

Makareth came to a halt seven steps from the group and waited for them to stop speaking. He thought it not a good idea to just disturb the conversation; it could end one's life quickly. As a commoner, you learned when to be patient early, or you didn't survive. Save your passion for the moment of the killing, use your hate to drive your actions, but don't forget that discipline is your strongest armor, his grandfather liked to say when he taught him and his cousins how to wield the Dranach and the sword. He liked to underline his words with corporal punishment in case of insufficiently disciplined behavior, too. But Makareth was good in obeying, and even better in his handling of spear, sword and shield. He had never been punished. He smiled, remembering how his uppity cousin cried like a little baby when grandfather cut thin, long strips of skin from his back. Flaying was grandfather's favorite form of torture, and he probably felt more pleasure when punishing his unworthy trainees than he pretended. Makareth had often thanked the Dark Mother for not being born a slave in the old man's household.

While he was waiting, Makareth had enough time to look at the other liegeman of his new lord.

Despite the icy weather, the other Druchii was wearing no cloak. Many raven braids with blue and red ribbons woven into them, adorned with small bones and teeth, fell onto his back, and with every movement of his head the bones hit the masterfully forged silversteel armor that he was wearing, making a clicking, melodic sound that reminded of wind chimes. And he moved his head a lot, as well as his hands, even his whole body. It was almost as if he was dancing to some music that only he heard, as if he was full to the brim with some unseen, burning power that makes it hardly possible for him to stand still. And yet, despite the constant motion, he didn't look ludicrous. Instead, it gave the impression that he was ready to fight.

The breastplate he wore was composed of many parts, making moving easier, and covered with complicated ornaments that, when one looked at them closer, resembled snakes and water maidens. There were ornaments on his khaitan, too, ornaments that didn't match each other, because the khaitan was sewn together from many, many different leather pieces, of which each once had been a tattoo on human skin. Among those ornaments, Makareth saw a repeating symbol that made his skin crawl, a symbol he recognized from somewhere but the meaning of which he didn't understand.

The way he wore his two swords, high on the hip, indicated that the elf was a Highborn, and around his neck that was not protected by a shawl sat the golden hadrilkar of Lykaon the Enchanter. Everything about the elf was graceful, lithe and elegant, more so than for any other Druchii that Makareth has seen. In a way, he reminded Makareth of the dancing High Elf in that Flesh House, but without the despair; his pride unbroken, awareness of his power and influence radiating from him.

The guard seemed to have said something that annoyed the highborn, and the elf's hands dropped to the hilts of his swords. Makareth instinctively stepped back, and this movement drew the other liegeman's attention. Seemingly forgetting about the guards, the tall Druchii turned around – only the upper half of his body, in a snake-like, strange movement – and looked at the younger elf. His face, perfect aquiline features, went from angry and snarling to pleasantly smiling in a split second, but the large, purple eyes, lined by black paint, were cold and resenting, revealing that the smile was nothing but a lie.

"Makareth, I assume?" The purple eyes blinked, very slowly, long black eyelashes throwing shadows over the bright color, turning it into black for a moment. "You have taken your sweet time. Did you need to cry in your mother's arms a little bit before leaving her?"

"No, dread one." Makareth grit his teeth. Discipline, remember, he told himself.

The tall Druchii, still smiling, nodded to the guards and turned to go. "Follow me, Makareth – our Lord expressed the wish that I introduce you to someone before we go in."

And now they were at the stables, and the terrifying lizard on the other side of the iron bars stared at Makareth with its tiny eyes. Not in a way a mount looks at his future rider. Rather in a way a predator looks at something appetizing.

Hadranir stepped closer, uncomfortably close for Malareth' taste, and put his long-fingered hands in thin leather gloves on the younger elf's shoulders, forcing him to face the nauglir and keeping him in place. "Look at him closely. If you don't bathe in poisonous nauglir slime, he'll eat you. Alive. They just bite down on some part of you they get between their teeth, you know? He could take your leg and swallow it while you are trying to get away, then he could chomp on your other one, then your lower body, one arm, then the second…" The tall Druchii bowed his head a bit so that his lips were above Makareth' ear, and his whisper was getting coarser while he spoke, breath going heavier. "Don't you think it would be fun? Maybe we should rub blood on you instead of the slime. I bet you'd like it… I know he certainly would." Hadranir nodded at the nauglir.

Makareth ducked down and stepped aside, freeing himself from Hadranir's touch. He began to doubt his decision, but it probably was too late to step back. "I'll take the poisonous slime, thank you." He glanced at the other liegeman and bit his lip. The other one was a Highborn with probably access to hundreds of possibilities to make Makareth' life miserable. And he was probably from Naggor, too, where they'd sooner or later go. Meaning Hadranir would have support there and Makareth wouldn't. Considering these facts, he decided to stick to respect – at least as long as he hadn't found a possibility to get rid of Hadranir. And that, he would. It was hate at first sight. "I feel honored that I am allowed to ride this impressive beast. Thank you!" He lowered his head, his eyes still watching the other Druchii closely.

Hadranir stepped from one foot to another, swaying to the melody no one but him seemed to hear. "Good. You better be, worthless commoner. Do you know how rare something like that happens, a lowborn like you riding one of those mighty creatures? Karn – that's the nauglir's name – used to belong to one of us who has left us forever, just a couple of days ago. The man was a noble. You'll be getting his other possessions too, his armor, the saddle, all that."

Makareth opened his eyes widely. "Wouldn't his family want to have those? Doesn't he have any heirs?"

"No. All of them are dead." Hadranir looked at the younger elf coldly. "The lord made sure they were. He couldn't use any offspring of his enemy wanting revenge, could he?" He gestured Makareth to follow and headed for the doors of the stables.

"Wait, are you saying the Lord killed him?" Makareth had to speed up to keep up with Hadranir, for even though he looked as if he was more dancing than walking, the latter was going extremely fast.

Hadranir nodded, lashes cloaking the purple eyes in shadows once again but his face expressionless. "Yes. It was a traitor, a spy. He and his allies planned to bring the Lord to fall, to set him a trap. The Lord found out."

Makareth sighed, relieved. "Then he deserved that the Lord killed him."

"He strung the traitor up by his feet, head down, like a rabbit that got caught in a sling trap. Very fitting! The Lord has a good sense of humor." Hadranir licked his lips. "Then he had nailed his hands to his thighs with long metal nails, and every time the traitor tried to tear them free, so he could try and untie himself, the Lord just used more nails. At the end, there were about thirty of them in each leg, looked a bit messy. The Lord didn't really do anything else. Played with him a little, a kiss of red-hot iron on his lower stomach, thin sharpened wood sticks through his cheeks and lips, a few strikes of the whip, but no cutting off parts, not much blood, nothing deadly. Just waited. Hanging upside down kills you after some time, you know?"

The young Druchii listened while they walked, silently. He was not surprised by the fact that the Naggorite lord had tortured somebody, and the description was rather exciting than repulsive, but he would strongly prefer to be in the torturer's position, not the victim's. He made a note to himself to never, ever, give the lord even a bit of a suspicion that Makareth could be any less than absolutely loyal.

Through the heavy iron front doors, up the stairs and down the hall, they went. Dark stone, abstract and less abstract reliefs, more tapestries, ceilings painted like night skies or ocean depths, thin, spiked columns holding the weight of the building inside, silent slaves hushing out of the way. They were inside the house again, and Makareth forced himself not to stare, not to look like someone who has always dreamed of, but never owned, such riches. He probably failed miserably, because Hadranir smirked contemptuously all the way. But then again, Hadranir liked him just as little as he liked Hadranir. Makareth imagined cutting this smirk from the Hadranir's handsome, impertinent face with a dull knife, and felt a bit better. One day, he knew, he would do just that. He would prove that being born a commoner didn't mean one couldn't best out such an inbred weakling of a noble like Hadranir.

In front of the door of the room where Makareth has been sitting in front of the lord just an hour or two ago, needle dancing across his back and shoulder, two male Druchii stood.

One of them was impressive. Makareth has only rarely seen a Dark Elf like that. The Druchii leaned on a wall, relaxed, and his body language was calm and confident. He was broad-shouldered and massive - not in a way human barbarians or orcs would be massive, of course. For the standards of other races, he would be still be considered slim and toned, but for an elf, he was a beast of a man. He wore a blackened breastplate with copper rune adornments, a long chainmail coat, and a dark red khaitan of dwarf leather. He wore two swords like all Highborn did, but one of the swords had been replaced with a gently curved, thin blade with a silk-wrapped hilt, in a simple, wooden scabbard painted black. His head was bald, except for a bun on top of his head like corsairs often had, and there were tattoos above his ears, rune-like signs. His eyes were black and narrow, and his skin darker than that of most Druchii Makareth had seen, weathered, as if he had been on a ship for a long time. He surely had, thought Makareth. It was not unusual for a Druchii to spend lots of time on a ship – even if one was not one of the Black Corsairs.

The second one was smaller than Makareth, thin and wiry. His black hair was shaved on the sides of the skull and bound back into a ponytail, and from his ear lobes dangled long earrings made from chains of finger bones. A single sword and a quiver with many bolts were fastened to his belt, and a crossbow was strung to his back above the black cloak. He wore no chainmail or other metal armor, just several layers of black and dark green leather, and his face was partly covered by a green shawl. His eyes, dark grey and piercing, looked at Makareth and Hadranir without visible emotion.

Both Druchii were wearing the golden hadrilcar with the curved, snake-like ends – the symbol that they were Lykaon's retainers.

Hadranir looked at the tall warrior in the black armor, and a smile, both courtly and taunting, lighted his perfect features. "Ah, Laggoran, you won't believe what a replacement our Lord has found for the traitor!" He pointed one slender finger at Makareth. "Just look at this fine specimen! Fresh from the stinking commoner's quarters."

Laggoran's eyes focused on Makareth now, dark and curious. "And a child, too." His voice was dark, low-pitched, and reminded Makareth of a nauglir's growl.

The tall Druchii shrugged. "Maybe the lord has developed tastes similar to yours, Laggoran, and wants the commoner to keep him warm at night. I thought he had the slaves for that, but for sure I can see no other reason for this inexperienced thing to come with us."

Laggoran grinned and winked at Makareth. "Maybe the lord will share? We could bet on how long the commoner will survive my affection, Hadranir."

Makareth looked at the broad-shouldered warrior coldly. "I don't think that is the role the lord chose for me." He frowned. "And I am not a child."

"Well, Laggoran, in case you want to whisper his name tenderly while you bed him, the commoner is called Makareth." Handranir looked back at the young Druchii and then pointed to the leather-clad, smaller man. "And this is Ruathac. You better don't make him angry; he has no sense of humor, contrary to us others." Then he sighed. "The lord wants you to cover yourself in nauglir poison before we go. Come with me."

The five Druchii left alone. It turned out that the beautiful slave girl was not Lykaon's but belonged to his ally, and the lord didn't seem to be interested in taking servants with him.

They entered the tunnels under the city of Hag Graef and traveled the underground road to Clar Karond, a road Makareth didn't even know existed; but Lykaon seemed to know this secret road well, leading them into the darkness. Sometimes, a salty smell of water was carried to them by cold drafts from other tunnels, and Makareth understood that they are not far from the passages to the Underworld Sea. The nauglir's claws made screeching and thumping sounds on the stone.

Riding a nauglir at first seemed easier than Makareth had thought. Karn was an old, trained beast, and he was sated and content. It took no more than a stab with the spurs to make him move or stand, turn right or left, and most of the time the way just continued straight ahead. It was dark except for the weak light of the witchlight lantern that Laggoran carried. After the first hour, it became boring. Even the pain of the fresh tattoo subsided when he got used to it. More than one time, Makareth almost fell asleep in the saddle, and to prevent that, he began recalling recipes for healing salves, reciting them silently to himself.

It didn't help for long, though, and after a while his eyes fell closed. He slid out of the saddle and landed on the floor with a thump, on his side, and his tattooed shoulder hurt again.

Hadranir, who was riding behind him, laughed, and brought his nauglir to a halt only one moment before the beast's paw would have crushed Makareth' skull.

The young Druchii cursed, jumped up and climbed back onto Karn's back. "How do you keep awake?" He glared at Hadranir.

The tall Druchii smiled sarcastically in the darkness. "Catch." He threw a small item at the younger liegeman.

Makareth caught it instinctively, examined it and found out that it was a piece of psychoactive root that the Druchii called courva, imported from Lustria. He knew that it could be used to keep yourself awake, concentrated, and make your reactions faster.

"Chew on it; it will help you stay in the saddle." Hadranir's melodic sing-sang echoed in the darkness.

The young Druchii obeyed.

He was biting on the bitter root stubbornly, trying not to throw up in response to the disgusting taste, when the trap snapped shut.

Ruathac had been the last one in the line, and it was him who reacted first, his crossbow sending a bolt into the darkness, his sharp ears hearing something the others didn't yet. As an answer, a dozen of bolts came back.

The sound of bolts hitting Hadranir's armor startled Makareth, and he wondered if any of them went through. Probably not, since Hadranir hissed and forced his nauglir to turn, his swords leaving the scabbards with a strange sound that resembled the pulled string of a harp.

Makareth himself wasn't hit, but one of the bolts flew past him just an inch from his face and he felt the rush of his own blood rising and adding to the toxic effect of the root.

He drew his sword and pulled on the reins, sticking one of the spurs to the nauglir's side, trying to bring him to turn around. The reptile didn't move an inch.

Somewhere behind him, Ruathac jumped from the back of his nauglir and darted into the black shadows.

Anger made Makareth grit his teeth in disbelief. What happened to the Cold One? It obeyed perfectly well just a moment ago, but now nothing could bring it to stop walking forwards, as if nothing had happened. As if Hadranir's swords weren't playing their killing music, hitting armor somewhere in the darkness. As if Ruathacs dagger and sword weren't striking silently, causing unknown voices to scream and gurgle. As if there weren't more bolts whistling through the air around Makareth.

Then Lykaon's nauglir passed him on the right, the lord's eyes blazing green in the darkness, like those of a predator of the night, the magical weapon in his hand making a buzzing, impatient sound, thirsty for the blood of the attackers.

After the Lord, Laggoran followed, the greenish witchlight lantern in his hand. His black gauntleted hand drew the foreign gently curved blade from its plain scabbard, and with full strength he stung Karn with it, just above Makareth's foot with the spur.

The young Druchii was surprised, and it took him a while to understand what the corsair-like elf had done – but the nauglir, feeling the sting, growled and finally turned around, his scaly tail brushing the rough-textured wall of the tunnel. Makareth tried adding pressure to the spurs, and the reptile moved again, towards the tumult in the tunnel.

The light of the lantern which Laggoran had dropped to the floor to have both hands free was not giving enough light to see clearly, but what Makareth could see was enough. About two dozen Druchii, dexterous and quick, dressed in black, their faces hidden behind masks and shawls. They had switched their crossbows to swords now that their opponents came closer.

Hadranir's singing weapons and Laggoran's unmatched swords dealt uncountable blows, but most of them were parried. The enemies were well trained. These were professional fighters, no spearmen militia. Even among Druchii there were differences – and in the seconds that Makareth needed to ride closer, he thought that the attackers were probably much more experienced and maybe even talented than him – and this thought made him rejoice. For his whole life, he had been waiting for a challenge.

The nauglir of the two liegemen bit into the crowd, disregarding the sword blows that rained on them and the wounds on their green flanks. A skull of one of the unknown men broke between the jaws of Laggoran's mount. Hadranir's lizard only missed the shoulder of another elf by a width of a hand, and the enemy jumped back in terror, fleeing into the darkness.

Lykaon was surrounded by a bigger group of attackers, and the magical sword was breathing bloody steam into the cold darkness. Around him, the floor was covered with severed limbs and dead bodies.

One of the black-dressed elves had jumped up to Hadranir's saddle, past the range where the swords of the noble could reach him comfortably, and stabbed a dagger into his side, between two plates of his armor. Hadranir howled, his voice even in pain beautiful, and tried, in vain, to bring his swords down on the enemy, who continued to cling to him, obscuring his view and pulling at the dagger that stuck between the scales of silversteel.

Makareth, driving Karn directly into the group of the black-clad strangers, used the additional momentum to strike at Hadranir's opponent, pushing his sword into the man's shoulder and throwing him off the other liegeman's nauglir. Two of the unknown elves attacked him now, their swords not reaching him but hitting his nauglir's hide, their unusually sharp blades cutting even through the thick scaled skin, and the Cold One snapped at them angrily.

And then he was on one side of Laggoran, Karn crushing the enemy that just stood at that spot a moment ago under his clawed paws. The older Druchii, acknowledging this momentary alliance in battle, turned away from him, aiming both swords at the enemies on his other flank. Laggoran's strange, plain sword cut through a neck of an enemy with ease and hit the one behind him across the face, sending both strangers to the ground, while his other sword parried a blow aimed for his hip.

Makareth swung his sword down with force, ripping through chain and cutting through leather, bringing another black-clad elf to fall.

Behind him, he heard Hadranir's triumphant call, and then the beautiful Druchii was on his right side, blood dripping from the swords, a joyful smile on the flawless face. The tunnel was too narrow for the opponents to be able to attack them from the flank now. Three grim snouts of the nauglir greeted the remaining attackers with blood-chilling growls, and the strangers, having lost more than half of their group, seemed to finally understand that they had no chance.

The enemies fled. They ran from the three Cold One riders, in panic, but silently, but they weren't able to run far – further in the tunnel, Lykaon sat upon his huge nauglir calmly, the group that had attacked him completely erased, the Cold One feeding upon the hill of disfigured corpses. His green eyes shone in the darkness like witchlight.

The fleeing group didn't have the chance to stop. They tried to get away on both sides of the Dreadlord, but they didn't make it. Instead of attacking them one by one, which would have given at least one or two of them to escape, Lykaon raised his hand. And spoke.

The blood froze in Makareth veins. The words coming from the lord's mouth sounded so wrong, so blasphemous. It were the same words he had heard on the battlefield that one time at war, when a Convent Sorceress screamed them out. The young Druchii's heart stood still for a moment, and a sensation similar to cold water enveloped him, his eyes burning, his muscles cramping in shock.

Ghostly blades made of iridescent blue fire appeared all around the Dreadlord, hitting the fleeing Druchii and inflicting deadly wounds. One by one, they fell. The last one already having made it past the Naggorite stumbled when the ghostly dagger pierced his back, and tried to crawl away into the saving darkness; but another blue flash of magic hit him, and his movement stopped. The blue light disappeared.

A male sorcerer, Makareth thought. They were not allowed to the Convent, feared, regarded with suspicion. There was this prophecy... The Witchking himself would be thrown from his throne by a male sorcerer. Did Makareth lose his mind, following someone like that? Did it make him an outlaw?

And then his thoughts suddenly took a completely different direction. What if Lykaon was the one from the prophecy? If he would one day challenge Malekith himself, and win? This would, Makareth smiled to himself, the freezing feeling finally leaving his limbs, make me the liegeman of the future king of Naggaroth. Or maybe... Maybe Lykaon could teach him. Teach him, Makareth, to wield magic. And who knows...

He scolded himself, knowing that with that last thought he definitely was too big for his boots.

The witchlight, still on the ground, untouched, radiated weak greenish light.

Only the tearing, grumbling sound of the nauglir devouring the dead was heard.

Laggoran let his Cold One eat, sitting on his back calmly. "I wonder who sent them. Did the traitor have more allies?" He cleaned his swords with his cloak and let them slide back into the scabbards.

Hadranir cursed, and his melodic voice sounded pained. "Where the hell is Ruathac? I need his help with the scratch one of these rats caused." He held his side, blood seeping through the scales of silversteel and his slender fingers.

"He will return. He probably brings down those who have fled early." The Dreadlord looked into the darkness. "I hope he keeps at least one alive, so that we can find out why they attacked us."

"I did." Ruathac stepped out of the darkness. In front of him he held a black-clad Druchii with bending knees, trying to free himself with useless, strangely slack movements, arms bound behind the back. From under the dark hood, white strands of hair were visible, and the unfocused eyes of the elf were of a rich, amber colour.

Hadranir, despite his wound, let out a delighted cry and leaned forward in the saddle. "An assassin from the Temple! Such an interesting subject to interrogate, with their high pain tolerance!"

Makareth couldn't believe his eyes. "How did you get him, Ruathac?"

"Poison on a crossbow bolt." The small Druchii pushed the drugged assassin to the ground, rolling him onto the stomach, and quickly tied his ankles with the same rope that bound his wrists, pulling him into a hogtie position. The white-haired elf tried to escape, but the poison made him helpless.

"Aren't they immune to poison? I mean, they are professionals; they use poison for their work all the time!"

Ruathac looked up, his eyes above the shawl obscuring most of his face flaming with hate so strong that Makareth almost felt it scorching the skin on his face. "None of you city-dwelling weaklings are immune to the herbs that grow in the Blackspine mountains."


	3. 3 - A Worthy Apprentice

**PART III: ****A Worthy Apprentice**

_or: The First Frontier_

Ruathac didn't use knifes, needles, whips or hooks – he simply cut open the front of the leather armor of the elf and beat him. The assassin didn't speak. His eyes were wandering around helplessly, his face twitching and his mouth opening each time the smaller Druchii's fist or boot touched his broken body, but no sound came out. Ruathac's poison seemed to be a muscle relaxant, or maybe it was the beating that weakened him – the white-haired Khainite soon stopped clenching his fists or struggling, and he had soiled himself. His tormentor didn't seem to care, continuing to apply precisely aimed kicks to the naked stomach, groin and ribcage of his writhing victim. The carved muscles and sharp, birdlike bones of the man soon seemed deformed, angles distorted, skin painted over in big, puffy bruises, quickly turning from red to purple. Methodically, the small Druchii then went over to the assassin's face and landed two short but fast punches on the it, hitting his mouth and jaw. Blood and shards of teeth made the victim choke. Ruathac turned him over onto his stomach to prevent him suffocating, and stepped onto his shoulder. His weight was not great, but it was sufficient to dislocate the joint and crush the socket, the assassin shaking soundlessly under the terrible pain, but still not screaming, not speaking, not begging.

Makareth was disgusted. The stench, the unsightly bruises, the barbaric, unrefined form of torture that the Shade – that was what the deadly Dark Elven tribes from the Blackspine mountains were called – used, everything of it was ugly. Even Makareth' drunken useless father had been more expert and creative in his way of inflicting pain on his slaves than this.

Laggoran, on the other hand, seemed to be highly amused. He jeered, complimenting the Shade on especially well-aimed hits. After a while, he took out a flask from which a strong smell of spirits rose, and drank from time to time, watching Ruathac's show closely.

At the end, Lykaon, who had seemed bored, overlooking the scene sleepily, green fiery eyes half-closed, intervened. "Enough. He will not confess this way. Could it be the drug you stunned him with that prevents him from speaking?"

"No." The Shade stepped back, the suffering Khainite breathing out, slightly relieved. "He should be able to speak, slowly and with difficulties, but understandable. We use this herb to make our food struggle less when we cut parts from it, if we want to keep it less injured and thus alive for a longer time. The effect decays quickly, and even more so through heat, making the flesh eatable shortly after the treatment; but usually they talk a lot during the procedure."

The Naggorite lord sighed. "We will take him with us and continue the interrogation with other means later. Hadranir might have more success. Your talents are not working on him, Ruathac."

Hadranir, who has returned to the group, smiled faintly. "Talents? Ruathac is no more than a butcher." He knelt down in front of the assassin, turned him over and took his bruised face in his hands. "What a pity! He was so beautiful. We should have enjoyed him much more thoroughly from the beginning."

Laggoran snorted. "True words here, Hadranir – though I am sure that with those words you meant something else than I would." He took a last sip from the flask and put it back into the saddle bag. "But we have to worry more about another possible ambush than about a waste of beauty, and if he doesn't talk, it might be better to return to Hag Graef and go by ship from there after all."

"Out of question." Lykaon shook his head. "I know that the traitor had friends in the harbour of Hag Graef, and your connections, Laggoran, are all in Clar Karond and Karond Kar. We would be fools if we risked getting on a ship full of possible enemies. Of course, we could kill them if we found out – but five men are not enough to handle a ship." He watched Ruathac drag the half-conscious assassin to Laggoran, who picked up the beaten elf easily and threw him over the saddle in front of himself. "We'll continue on our way now. Later, when we rest, I'll find out who send the Khainite."

The travel didn't seem as boring now. Makareth was cautious of every unusual sound, watching out for shadows moving through the tunnels. His senses, sharpened by courva root, played tricks on him, illusions of movement and whispering startling him every time he began to relax.

He was almost thankful for the rest, his mind tired of constant vigilance, the effect of the drug finally wearing off. They were in a smaller cavern, not far from the way they were traveling on. Makareth has never traveled the tunnels before, and he was not sure he would find the way back to the main road by himself. The cavern that was probably frequently used as a resting place in the past, judging from the remains of fireplaces and some waste from long ago eaten meals, originally had two entrances. One of them, the bigger door, seemed to have been made artificially and later, out of some reason, sealed again, with a heavy iron door the locking mechanism of which was melt into a formless lump. The cavern's wall and floor on that side was partly build from weathered stones, clay and earth, as if the natural cavern went on the other side of the wall. It probably did. The other entrance was a natural passage in the rock, too small for the nauglir to get through, but big enough for the Druchii. The Cold Ones stayed outside the cavern, in the tunnel, and from time to time Makareth heard them growl in their sleep.

Makareth didn't like the feeling of being in such a place. It reminded, once again, of a trap. But he was too exhausted, and so he wrapped himself in his cloak – not his old one, but the new, fur trimmed, thick wool cloak in a rich blue color, with an ornamented silver fastener on the shoulder, the cloak that used to belong to the noble who was his predecessor as the lord's liegeman – and leaned against the stone wall, closing his eyes. The darkness, only disrupted only by green light of the witchlight lantern, surrounded them, and it was for a moment as if there was no world above the tunnels, no city of Hag Graef, no other Druchii in their constant fight for rank and riches. He felt peaceful, but at the same time a sad, hopeless feeling began to rise in his heart. His old life was over. He didn't miss his father, and he didn't think he ever would. But it was a well-known life, a simple one. And this new road ahead of him – it might be one of success as well as turn out to be a dead end.

His thoughts were swept away by Hadranir's melodic laugh. He looked up, and saw the beautiful Druchii standing above their bound prisoner, legs on both sides of the assassin's body. His sword was pointing at the throat of the white-haired elf.

"Don't try that again, will you?" Hadranir traced the man's bruised jawline with the point of the sword, almost tenderly, without cutting in, but the prisoner jerked when the blade touched the tender, bluish skin. "If you try to flee, it will only be more pain for you." He let the blade slide down, keeping its point between the assassin's collarbones. Hadranir licked his lips, rings in the split tongue again making the soft, wind-chime-like sound against his teeth. "And I don't mean beating. I mean other… more sublime… more sophisticated kinds of pain. But if you comply, you'll earn a quick, painless death."

The assassin didn't move, seemingly obeying. His eyes were wide awake now, glowing in the soft yellowish light typical for the followers of Khaine. He probably knew the current situation was hopeless, and was rational enough to wait for a better moment to flee. But in his eyes, the longing for death was hot and intense, and his whole body, by now not affected by the poison anymore, was taut as a string, almost trembling with the pressure to throw himself onto that blade.

Makareth couldn't think of a reason why the Khainite didn't do, except the possibility that he desperately needed to return to the Temple. But then this was not just something about rivalry between nobles, not simply a paid murder. Then this attack had to be something with the Cult of Khaine itself, and the white-haired Druchii was not just a hitman. Only then it made sense that the choice of death instead of failure, no matter how preferred by the Druchii it was usually, was not available to him for some reason.

A message, it occurred to Makareth. Maybe the assassin wanted to provide the Temple with information about the Naggorite lord and his liegemen. That is why he wouldn't take that quick, painless death. The assassin would try to outplay them. Be careful, Makareth reminded himself, be patient, be disciplined – the time to act would come.

"So, I see you made up your mind to cooperate." The singsong of Handranir's voice had a content tone to it. The sword left the crevice between the assassin's clavicles, floating over the captive's naked stomach. "Maybe you could tell us why you are here."

The assassin opened his mouth, but he didn't speak. Instead, he broke into a pained cough. He turned his face away and spit out, blood splattering on the floor.

"Who sent you?" Hadranir sighed. "Just tell the whole story already."

And then, the was a sudden movement, the Khainite turned over with surprising dexterity, the rope binding his wrists to his ankles straining against the blade that floated above the middle of his body, and then he suddenly had his legs free. Hadranir, taken off guard, cried out, tried to jump back and raised his sword in the intention to strike down. But it was too late; the assassin enveloped the tall Druchii's ankles with his legs, turned over violently, and Hadranir was sent flying to the stony ground.

The Khainite ran for the entrance of the cavern.

One moment later, Ruathac stood between him and the way out, dagger and sword in his hands. The assassin, this time disregarding the weapons, threw himself at the smaller Shade, through either unearthly quickness or sheer luck avoiding the blows that the latter aimed at him. They rolled out into the dark tunnel, Ruathac's hand hitting the wall, sword falling out, and Makareth heard them fighting.

Laggoran flew past him, the foreign blade drawn. Makareth jumped up and followed him, reaching for the handle of his own sword.

They came just in time. Somehow, the Khainite managed to straddle Ruathac, pinning his arms to the ground, the dagger useless, and just as they approached, hit his head against the Shade's. Ruathac's body went limp as he lost consciousness.

The Khainite was on his legs again, his arms still bound, but the next moment, Laggoran and Makareth reached him. Makareth had outdistanced the broad-shouldered Druchii and was there first, and he smashed his sword with the broad side against the side of the Khainite's head, trying to stun him. The white-haired elf stumbled, but continued running. And then Laggoran's thin curved blade leashed out, cutting into the assassin's leg from behind and the enemy finally fell, sinews cut, his left leg not holding his weight anymore.

"This damned rat!" Hadranir stood up, holding his wounded side again.

Makareth and Laggoran hauled the struggling Khainite back into the cavern. Laggoran pinned him to the ground, growling something to him that only the assassin heard, and his amber eyes became almost black as his pupils dilated in terror. Makareth wondered what it was, but he had no time to ask. Ruathac was still in the dark tunnel, there was some blood from the assassin's leg there, and the nauglir were just a few steps away. The young Druchii went to get him before something happened. Luckily, the Cold Ones were sated from their feast on the attackers earlier and stayed calm. Ruathac was light, despite the many layers of clothing, and he dragged him into the circle of green light and put him down. The Shade was breathing, and his eyelids fluttered.

Lykaon finally stood up from where he was sitting and walked over to Laggoran and the Khainite, whose face had now turned almost as white as his hair, except for the bruised part.

"Well done, my liegemen. It seems that our guest does prefer torture after all."

Laggoran looked up at the lord. "Do you want to start right away?"

Hadranir left the cavern. Makareth heard him whispering appeasing words, as he carefully approached the sleeping Cold Ones and pulled a leather bundle out of his saddle bag. Holding it with almost tender care, he returned to where Lykaon and the others were, keeping a respectful distance from the lord. "May I, lord?"

"Lord, may I have him before Hadranir destroys what is left of his face?" The corsair-like Druchii grinned. "After all, I caught him."

Nodding, Lykaon directed his steps to Makareth and Ruathac, who had finally opened his eyes. The Dreadlord sat down just a step from them.

Makareth briefly thought about Hithuan, the rule that measured how close a Druchii of a lower class was allowed to be to a noble, and if he should step back, but then, it was the lord himself who shortened the distance between them, so it should be alright.

Ruathac sat up, rubbed the blister on his forehead and snarled. Then he reached into his robes and took out a small pipe and a bag that contained dried leaves of some plant unknown to Makareth.

"Do you want to join Laggoran?" The Dreadlord looked at Makareth closely, his green eyes half-closed and scrutinizing. "You helped him with getting the escapee, I've seen it. Or do you prefer to work together with Hadranir and me later, when we begin with the actual interrogation?"

Makareth didn't know what to answer. He took the lit pipe that Ruathac offered him and inhaled the bitter smoke. He had to cough, the taste was as terrible as that of the courva root, but when the cough subsided, he felt calm and comfortable.

Lykaon took the pipe put of his hands. "Tell me. Now."

He thought about it, a bit insecure what the right answer was. And then he saw what Laggoran did.

Makareth looked away. Somehow, he had imagined the nobles, the elite of the Druchii society, to be above things like simple beatings and rape, and he felt disappointed. Weren't they said to be true artists of cruelty and horror? Either slaying their enemies in one instant elegantly or being able to keep them alive through endless tortures, celebrating the affliction of pain as art? Maybe not all of them were. He looked at Lykaon and saw the same bored expression on the lord's face as he had seen during the brutal treatment that Ruathac had subjected the captive to earlier. "I prefer to participate in the actual interrogation, dread lord."

"Good." Lykaon reached out with his hand and his sharp nails brushed the young liegeman's cheek lightly. "I sense that you will be a worthy apprentice. Don't judge Laggoran by his unrefined habits. You will see, you can learn many things from him, too."

It took the young Druchii all his willpower not to flinch, feeling offended, treated like a child he didn't think himself to be anymore. But instead, he nodded and forced himself to look at the scene on the other side of the green circle.

The assassin still didn't scream. His beaten body was rocked back and forth like a lifeless doll, his face, expressionless safe for the terrible whiteness, was ground into the stony floor of the cavern by the hand pushing on his neck. It lasted too long for Makareth' taste, longer than he would imagine things like this to be. But the Khainite was silent.

Hadranir lit torches which he stuck into the floor where it was made of stones and clay, between the stones, and the cavern was now full of warm light. It was his turn now, and when he began his dance with the victim, Makareth finally liked what he saw – creative, elegant work. He tied a thick rope around the captive's neck, cutting off his breath just for long enough to make him suffer, but not die, releasing him only for brief moments that made the Khainite cough and inhale painfully. He asked Makareth to help him applying hundreds of needles in the most sensitive places of the victim's body, needles that Hadranir then heated with a candle. They drew hooks through the Khainite's flesh, fastened chains on the hooks and pulled the chains taut around the captve's body, so that even the slightest of his movements encreased his pain. From time to time, Hadranir asked the assassin questions, but his agreeable voice was trembling with lust, and Makareth saw that he was hoping that the white-haired elf wouldn't answer. Then the slender Druchii brought out a thorned, thin chain-whip that ripped small pieces out of the victim's flesh with each strike, creating beautiful, flower-like wounds. Makareth had watched with awe, and then Hadranir had smiled at him sweetly and offered him to try the whip out on their captive.

The young Druchii enjoyed it, and though his strikes were not as well-aimed yet, Hadranir commented, in his singsong voice, that he was definitely showing talent. While Makareth was still practicing with the whip on the Khainite's body, Hadranir took silversteel pincers out of the bundle, held the assassin's head between his knees and plucked, with visible effort, tearing and changing the angle many times, the man's broken teeth from his jaw. He collected the teeth into a small linen bag – probably to use them as adornments for his hair later.

Hadranir suggested that they should make a break, casually, though he was panting with exhaustion by now. He went over to the nauglir again, got a wineskin out of his saddlebags, and they sat down at the wall of the cavern. The beautiful Druchii smiled at his younger companion, drank some of the wine and then gave the skin to Makareth.

Makareth' mind was on fire, his heart beating loudly, and pictures of what he had just done to the assassin were flashing before his eyes again and again, sending waves of pleasure through his body. It felt like butterflies in his belly, like being shaken with fear and like the taste of the sweetest honey, all at once. The wine tasted aromatic and lovely, and he felt wonderful. He didn't hate Hadranir in that moment; instead it was as if he had found again a brother that he had lost long ago. They had worked themselves into a strange, heated frenzy over the battered body of the captive, and, acting almost as one, in perfect harmony, had for now forgotten their mutual antipathy. They emptied the wineskin, and Hadranir brought more.

The assassin started screaming only hours later, when they gave up trying to get any answers out of him. It was not pain that made him scream – it was the final understanding that they were destroying him, that there wouldn't be able to try his luck again, that he would not go anywhere from here, never escape, and never bring the Temple the message he desperately wanted to deliver.

He screamed a bit more when Lykaon finally joined them. Laggoran, Hadranir and Makareth stepped back respectfully, hands and faces by now covered with blood, and watched the lord finish their work.

Makareth couldn't avert his eyes. The Dreadlord didn't just intend to inflict pain or fear on his victim – he simply vivisected him, starting with the limbs, masterfully, careful not to damage any vital organs or blood vessels.

At the end, the assassin was a mess; he didn't even look like an elf anymore. He was alive, and he was still making faint sounds – but not a single sensible word.

He fell silent again when the Dreadlord finally touched his still beating heart with his clawed hand. And then Lykaon took it out of the ribcage, sank his filed teeth into it and it was all over.

The young Druchii woke up screaming. Strong hands shook him, and he looked up into Laggoran's laughing face. A bitter, nauseating taste in his mouth, he tried to sit up, but found his limbs entangled with those of Hadranir and Lykaon. They lay on the remains of the dead Khainite, sleeping, fully clothed but disheveled and messy, completely covered in drying blood.

Finally, he managed to free himself from under the lord's arm and to push Hadranir's head from his hip, and shakily stood up. The nausea became stronger, his head was spinning. He retched, falling on all fours, and threw up sour wine and undigested chunks of raw meat.

"Now, now, child, you shouldn't drink if you are not used to it." Laggoran sounded amused, a soft, low chuckle to his voice.

Makareth held his head in his hands and tried to understand what had happened after the Khainite was killed, and then the memory was back.

Makareth remembered that there was the Dreadlord's purring voice, a low-pitched command that made his bowels vibrate: "Come!"

He recalled that Hadranir had dragged him by the shoulder towards the dying assassin and shoved his face into the bloody innards, and there was a taste that was coppery and faintly salty and warm, and a sudden hunger that almost turned him inside out, but the flesh didn't obey his teeth that were not filed to points like those of Lykaon and Hadranir.

Remembered, less clearly, like from a dream, that Hadranir ripped out chunks of flesh from what had been the Khainite, like a dog or a nauglir would do, and pressed his mouth onto that of Makareth' in a bloody parody of kisses, feeding him the red mass, and that the beautiful Druchii's sharp teeth had injured his lips when he did it, accidentally or on purpose, and his own blood was on his tongue, mingled with that of the unlucky assassin, and he was afraid and excited and completely drunk, and then there was darkness.

And in the darkness was a dream. In that dream there was a creature made of maddening desires and dark secrets, embracing him, and it looked like the High Elf maiden from the Flesh House and like Hadranir at the same time, but its eyes were burning like those of Lykaon. With the deep, enchanting voice of the Naggorite lord it spoke obscenities into the young Druchii's ear, and Makareth did with it things similar to those that Laggoran had done to the tormented assassin, but instead of torture it was pure bliss. He knew that if he stayed with it, he'd be lost forever. He pushed it away, and ran, faster than he had ever run in his whole life, and he felt more tainted and dirtied than he ever had in his whole life.

"It is your turn and Hadranir's to wake. Ruathac and I have to sleep too." Laggoran methodically shook the other liegeman, waking him.

The beautiful Druchii yawned, stretched like a cat and stood up gracefully, the ghostly music in his head making his movements a dance again. His wound didn't seem to cause him any more pain, on the contrary, it was as if he had bathed in a fountain of youth, his purple eyes radiating, his blood-covered face showing no traces of exhaustion. His grin was once again mocking when he looked at Makareth. "You can't handle your wine, commoner."

Makareth just shook his head, and covered the ground with more vomit.


	4. 4 - The City of the Ships

**PART IV: The City of the Ships**

_or: Second Encounter_

They continued their travel for ten more days. Once, an untamed nauglir crossed their path. Makareth had wished it would attack; he was tired of the darkness that was even deeper than that of Hag Graef, the city that saw no daylight, and anything that would distract him from thinking about the strange dream would be good. But his wish wasn't granted. Threatened by the presence of Karn and the other Cold Ones, it fled.

When they almost reached Clar Karond, the tunnel took a turn westwards, and opened into a bigger cave almost completely flooded with water. Makareth's was amazed to see that there were docks cut into the rock. A ship, resembling a skiff, but without sails, waited at this underground harbor.

A long line of human slaves, chained together, passed them. Probably on their way to to board the ship which would bring them to a Gate that was closer to Hag Graef, to work in the mines - most of them were adult, comparatively healthy looking males, and more than once Makareth noticed that their eyes were not dull or scared, but full of hate when they looked up at the beastmasters who rode on the sides of the marching line, working their whips from time to time.

"They are new." Hadranir watched the slaves walk by. "Funny to see some of those here. Usually they go on land in Karond Kar. Maybe their owner originally wanted to sell them to the saw mills or the shipyards and then got a better price from Hag Graef. Or maybe they will work at the oars of that ship."

Laggoran smiled when a particularly strong-looking human with blond hair and beard growled something in the ugly language of his homeland and spit at one of the tamers. "Just look at this beast. Almost a pity that he will be wasted in the mines or in the bilge; he'd be enjoyable to break."

Hadranir threw the broad-shouldered Druchii a disdainful look. "You can buy one like him on every market for two hundred gold or less. And in a dozen or two years, you'll stop lusting after these animals anyway. Their touch will be of no use to you, with all that poisonous nauglir slime you have to cover yourself in."

The black-armored elf squinted his eyes. "How sad, Hadranir. You are jealous of my abilities. Don't worry; there are herbs that can allow you to… wield your spear again, if you know what I mean."

"You still haven't lost the hope I'd use my spear on you, have you? You fool." The other liegeman laughed amiably, shaking his mane of black hair, the blue and red ribbons in it dirty with drying blood and hardly noticeable anymore. Then he turned to Makareth, and his face became serious. "We are talking about sensation; you both still have this weakness. Laggoran used to be a corsair for most of his life, and has only been riding a Cold One for a few decades now, not much longer than you. Nauglir slime causes your skin to become numb, more and more, irreversibly. After a couple hundred of years, the only thing that you can still perceive is pain, and only if it is severe enough. And that's not all. Imagine your skin feeling nothing, your nose smelling nothing, your tongue tasting nothing. That's what it is like for Lord Lykaon and me."

"Enough of that, Hadranir." Lykaon gave his nauglir the spurs, and his liegemen followed.

They followed the broad tunnel leading from the underground docks to the Doom Gate, and rode the rising slope towards the surface. After Lykaon named himself, the guards opened a smaller door, instead of the massive gate in front of them, and then they were over the ground again, icy wind howling around them, the dark pines swaying their branches, loosing snow on their heads, and the nauglir left traces in the knee-deep white.

They reached the city only in the evening. It was surrounded by endless forests which were used to build the smaller ships – at least those ships that were not castles on the back of living sea dragons. Makareth would have loved to see the saw mills and the thousands of slaves working as wood cutters, but they didn't spend time on that. Instead, they headed directly to the shipyards.

Makareth opened his eyes wide, looking at the many skiffs and hydra ships being constructed by industrious workers in the dockyards. Many of those who did the higher-qualified work, he noticed, were Asur, while human slaves did the hardest, but less complicated tasks. There were no Druchii working on the ships, the only ones present were a couple of overseers and beastmasters.

A painfully loud, low-pitched roar caught Makareth' attention. He turned his head and saw a monstrous sea dragon biting a piece out of an almost finished, slender ship. Panic broke out as wooden planks and a dozen of slaves were crushed by its massive jaws. The corsair crew that was just leaving the citadel on its back, was thrown off the bridge that connected the gates of the citadel to the landing. Some of the Druchii swam on land, but Makareth saw one of them scream as he was pulled underwater by an unseen creature. The waves, crimsoned by his blood, crashed in around the surviving corsairs, and more of them were dragged down.

Hadranir had watched the spectacle, and a small, almost lovely smile appeared on his perfect face. "Sea maidens, they are always hungry," he whispered in admiration.

Slaves on the shipyard backed off from the sea dragon, but beastmaster whips forced them back, and soon they resumed their work on the now damaged skiff.

One of the slaves, a tall High Elf with skin bluish in the cold and hair that was probably golden but didn't look like it anymore because the man was dirty and uncombed, wearing a heavy steel collar and a short linen tunic, seemed to have lost his mind, scared into insanity by the sea monster. He began screaming at the beastmasters in Eltharin. Makareth understood most of what the slave said. After all, Druhir and Eltharin were almost the same language. The Asur was cursing the beastmasters, calling them ignorant brutes, saying that with these working conditions the new fleet would never be finished. One of the Druchii, a grim, bald man in dark red leather and a wool cloak, cracked a whip across the Asur's face and chest, sending him to the ground. The High Elf stopped cursing and raised his arms, trying to protect his face, while his tormentor continued to whip him carelessly. Soon the whip was drawing blood, and one of the beastmaster's colleagues, a terribly scarred, one-eyed woman in dark purple clothing, walked over to him and stopped him. Makareth heard her say that the grim Druchii better shouldn't kill the master builder – here she laughed, making a joke about the master builder being in fact a slave, and poking the cowering High Elf with the point of her boot – unless he wanted to be whipped himself.

They approached the private shipyard of the Highborn with whom they would travel according to Lykaon. Makareth looked back to the sea dragon which was now lying there calmly, head under water, most of its body invisible except for the scaled back and the citadel on it. The citadel's towers, he noticed, were damaged, gaping holes in the walls, the roof of the citadel missing completely. He wondered if it was a catapult that caused this, or if it was magic. While they rode on to one of the smaller buildings at the docks, he saw slaves already bringing stones, clay and wood and beginning to repair the citadel.

The corsair captain offered them wine. He was sitting on the floor amidst pillows in covers of red silk with foreign looking ornaments, legs crossed, and eyed them with suspicion. His face was almost identical to that of Laggoran, except for a badly healed scar on his chin. He wore his black hair long and bound into a low ponytail, and was dressed in layered silk robes that looked too soft and light on his leather-like skin.

Makareth felt a bit uncomfortable. He didn't mind sitting on the floor, but he didn't understand all that talk about Cathay and the Old World that Laggoran and the captain were indulging in. He was also worried about the fact that Lykaon and Hadranir disappeared just a moment after they had entered at the house, after a short, whispered talk with the corsair captain. Laggoran had explained that they were just gone to look at the new arrivals and that Makareth didn't need to worry.

"I insist that you take us with you, brother." Laggoran drank a sip from a masterfully forged silver cup. "After all, I have given you all that you own, and if you think that you can reject me and my lord, I will simply take it back." His smile was friendly, but the captain's dark eyes went narrow.

"Laggoran, I warn you! You didn't leave the Thorned for no reason. It was quite difficult to remake all those alliances and to get rid of those whom you had angered. Do you want to destroy everything that I have done for our family?" The corsair captain leaned back, his posture relaxed, but his eyes were belying him. He was angry, and Makareth almost sensed the anger like a black cloud in the hot room, more tangible than the bluish smoke from the fireplace, into which a thin, childlike slave girl had just thrown some incense powder before disappearing again.

"I am not speaking of the Thorned! Just a skiff. Give me control of one of the skiffs, and let me accompany you on the next raid, no more. I'll leave the Thorned all for yourself." The broad-shouldered Druchii put down the cup and stretched. "Speaking of the Thorned – do you know her mount is munching on other people's ships in the dockyards right now? Say, where did you get her as battered as she is?"

"Not far from Ulthuan." The captain smiled. "Made some good fortune there – more than enough to repair the Thorned, and for the crew to live for at least a year."

"And as we know, a tenth to the crew, and four tenths to the captain…" Laggoran laughed. "You are indeed a rich man now, Adragil, aren't you?"

Adragil clapped his hands, and the waif-like girl appeared again. "Kneel."

The girl obeyed, her blue eyes huge and tear-filled. Makareth smelled her fear. She was a High Elf, young, but older than he thought at the beginning, she was at least his own age, probably even older. She had silver hair and her snow-white, yet unmarred skin, not covered by any clothing. Her features, so fine and perfect, betrayed that she was of an ancient noble origin. He held his breath. Despite being terribly thin – she probably tried to rebel against her treatment with not touching her food, and it was this thinness that made her look younger than she really was –, she was beautiful. He thought that he would like to have such a slave too – this was something completely different to his father's unrefined, plump Two with her pig-like nose, or the old silent One. One day, he knew he would.

The corsair captain nodded at her. "This girl is the daughter of a Prince. It was her father's fleet that we have encountered; his flagship was the only one that escaped, and it were his mages that have damaged the Thorned. But all what is left of this child's noble entourage is in my cages now. I already sold the commoners, the servants and the surviving warriors, and made the artefacts and other goods that they had with them to gold. I intend to sell her to the highest-bidding, too, one day – but only after I have enjoyed her presence for some time. It is quite pleasurable to have wine served and feet massaged by a noble Asur. Not to speak of other things that she will be good for once I grow tired of simply letting her do servant tasks and watching her pride crumble."

"You are an incredibly cold-blooded man!" Laggoran snorted. "Maybe you are not a Druchii at all, brother. All that talk about her being a Prince's daughter... She is nothing of it now. Just a pet, a thing, furniture, if you want her to be that. How long has it been since you have captured her, a week, a month? If I were you, she wouldn't probably even be alive anymore."

Adragil raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to buy her?"

Laggoran laughed and said, with a side-glance to Makareth: "I think Lord Lykaon would love to play with one like that. But I am a bit short on money right now. How about a trade? Your little silver Asur for this boy here."

Makareth stared at the broad-shouldered Druchii, bewildered. "What?"

Adragil laughed. "The Thorned and the skiffs keep attracting young Druchii men without me giving away such a treasure for them. Besides, he belongs to your Lord, doesn't he?"

Annoyed by the fact that they talked about him like that, as if he was not a free Druchii like them, Makareth felt his cheeks burn. He wanted desperately to draw his sword and plunge it into Laggorans ribcage, but he didn't think he would be able to win a fight against both corsair brothers.

The girl looked at him. She had understood what the men were talking about and now smiled at Makareth sympathetically. It made him even angrier – was this slave really thinking they were in a similar situation? Without a word, he stood up and rushed out of the room into the dark corridor.

The wall, against which he leaned, was cold and soothing, and he swore to himself that he would kill Laggoran for treating him like that. One day, not now. His fingers found the golden hadrilkar on his neck, warm from his skin, and he sighed. Laggoran was just a fool. Patience, he reminded himself. Discipline. Strength of will.

From down the corridor, he heard the Naggorite lord's dark voice, and a warm shiver went through his body. He straightened himself and slowly walked towards the source of the sound. Soon, he peeked around the corner and saw Lykaon.

The lord was standing at a high, narrow window that hardly let any light in, looking outside upon the stormy, grey sea. Hadranir was standing next to him, leaning on the wall, only his narrow back visible from where Makareth stood. They were close to each other, Makareth thought, the Lord really didn't care about the rules of Hithuan.

The beautiful Druchii wasn't moving or swaying to the ghostly music as he usually did; instead, he looked tired, his shoulders hanging.

"I promise it won't be long. A year, at the worst; probably sooner. After this journey we will have enough suitable slaves for the ritual, and you will get what you are longing for. I know it is more difficult for you. It must be horrible, being such a fierce follower of Atharti from your youngest years. All those possibilities to feel lust... ripped from you... after having tasted them to the fullest from the beginning. To be just an empty shell, but to remember - everything. What an exquisite torture it must be." Lykaon's shark smile seemed weirdly content. "For me it was easy - I had already forgotten how sweet taste, touch and smell are when I finally began to worship her. When the experience returns in those brief moments in a ritual and for the few days afterwards, it is just a gift to be enjoyed; I have found new roads to lust. But you are like a drunkard without wine."

"A drunkard without wine? It was you who gave me that wine! You taught me everything, you… you created what I am now! I can't wait for any longer! Let us buy the new batch from Adragil and use them for the ritual tonight…" Hadranir turned towards Lykaon, and Makareth, seeing his face now, was surprised by how bad the beautiful Druchii looked, his face even more pale than usually, the paint around his eyes smeared, his mouth corners drawn down in a frown. "What do you know of my suffering, uncle? You, at least, have magic! The experiences of your flesh are as limited as mine, but you can see and feel the eight winds brushing your soul. And what is with me?"

He suddenly threw himself at Lykaon, his arms winding themselves around the lord's body, his split and ringed tongue lashing out and touching the metal of the armor. "I can't feel you, I can't taste you, nothing!" he whispered, but the whisper almost sounded like crying, and his forehead sank onto the black and purple breastplate of the Dreadlord. "Please… Please let us do the ritual tonight," he begged, his voice trembling.

"What a fine worshipper of Atharti you still are, my liegeman, my nephew… my dearest ally." Lykaons clawed hand stroked Hadranir's tangled braids, with a gesture more tender than Makareth had ever seen of any Druchii, but his smile was still unmoving and cruel. "She is a goddess of weakness, as well." With these words, he grabbed a handful of Hadranir's hair and pulled him away from himself, throwing him against the window sill, and walked away. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

Hadranir made a pained sound and slumped down, defeated and humiliated, burying his flawless face in his hands.

Makareth pressed himself to the wall around the corner, not breathing. But Lykaon came closer, and a moment later he passed Makareth, throwing him a knowing look, the terrifying smile still on his dark lips.

Makareth waited only a split second – and then he ran after Lykaon, before Hadranir would wake up from his self-pity and notice that the young Druchii overheard this conversation.

They entered the room where Laggoran and Adragil were still talking quietly. Both looked up as they entered, and Adragil ordered the Asur girl to bring more goblets and wine.

"My brother will give us one of his skiffs. The fleet is leaving in three days, after the Thorned is repaired, Mylord. We will join the Ark in the open waters and will have to travel with full speed to reach them." Laggoran bowed his head slightly as he spoke to Lykaon.

The Naggorite raised his goblet. "Thank you, Adragil. Your crew will be paid well; and I will make sure that you get a big share of what we bring home."

"I know, dread lord. We've made business before, and I was always content with the outcome." Adragil nodded with a sly smile. "I hope your young liegeman is not too afraid of the ocean. It can be dangerous out there."

Makareth swallowed, determined not to say anything.

"I think he will get used to the sea fairly quickly." Lykaon put down the goblet and looked at the door. "Hadranir will join us in a moment, and then I hope you will show us our quarters for tonight."

"Yes, I will do so. But before you go to rest, I would like to ask a favor of you. As you might already know, Akarin Runemoon, a Convent Sorceress, travels with the Thorned to cloak the fleet in storm. She might take offence in the fact that I take a male sorcerer with us, and it is better not to raise suspicion. Of course, she will not reject the possibility to have help on her side when it is needed. But it would be better for you not to work magic when you are on board, unless it is in a fight. " Adragil looked a bit uncomfortable saying that.

But the Dreadlord just nodded. "I see no need to cast spells as long as we are not attacking or attacked."

The door opened, and in an instinctive reaction Laggoran, Adragil and Makareth reached for their weapons. Lykaon stayed calm, and they saw Hadranir enter the room, closing the door behind him. He sat down three steps from Lykaon, next to Laggoran. His purple eyes were burning with unhealthy fire, and he seemed to be glowing with fever. He stayed silent until his eyes fell onto the High Elven girl, and then his mouth formed one single word without making a sound.

"Atharti" – that was what Makareth thought this word to be.

Scared by his devouring stare, the girl crawled backwards until she was sitting at Adragil's feet.

"Do you sell her?" Hadranir's voice was almost coarse, the melody in it blown away by dark, overwhelming greed.

Adragil tilted his head, calculating at once. "I didn't plan to… But of course, it depends on the price." The captain was not stupid – he saw that Hadranir's wish to buy the girl was far from rational, and he knew how to make gold with things like that.

Hadranir gestured to the corsair captain to come outside with him, and they left. The girl stayed where she was, looking around helplessly.

Makareth almost felt pity for her, or maybe it was jealousy, caused by the knowledge that if Hadranir bought her, she wouldn't make it till midnight. He would rip her apart like he did with the assassin, in his insane, never quenched thirst for sensation, and would be as hungry and mad afterwards as he was before. And Makareth, who, in his opinion, could put her to much better use, would never get his hands on her. And by the Cytharai, how he would want to. He imagined her dancing on a table, her foot pinned to it by a dagger like the High Elf in the Flesh House, and the memory combined with the sight triggered an intense heat in his groin. But he wouldn't have her. He had no money at all on his hands. He closed his eyes, trying to shut the sight of the thin white body out of his mind, to escape these fruitless fantasies. It didn't help. Was it what Hadranir suffered from? Atharti was not a kind goddess, Makareth thought.

Hadranir didn't come back.

Adragil entered the room, smiling, grabbed the Asur's wrist and dragged her out with him. Makareth thought, bitterly, that it was the last time he saw her.

But he heard her scream in the room next to the one he shared with Ruathac. She was not like the Khainite – she was crying, begging, screaming, even laughing hysterically at times, and Makareth longed to see what Laggoran and Hadranir did to her. Ruathac, on the other hand, didn't seem to even notice the sounds from the other room. He smoked his pipe, staring into the air, and looked as if he was thinking about something. Talking to him was of no use – he only answered with yes or no or didn't answer at all. At the end, Makareth resorted to taking care of his excitement with his own hand, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

When he woke up, only an hour had passed, and she was still screaming. He sat up in bed, and at once his patience was all drained, and he knew he just had to know what they did.

He tiptoed out into the corridor, trying not to wake Ruathac – it was ridiculous, since the Shade woke up instantly and threw him an indifferent look –, walked to the door of the other room and knocked.

Surprisingly, the door was opened. Laggoran stood there, dressed only in a light robe, and eyed him with visible amusement. "Why didn't you ask if you could join from the beginning?"

Makareth tried to look past him into the room, biting his lip.

The broad-shouldered elf grabbed him by the neck and pushed him into the room, closing the door again.

The room was lit by a dozen candles, most of them in silver candleholders. Something was drawn on the wooden floor, in the middle of the room, and the lines and symbols were glistening red. Maybe it was fresh blood. But if it was, it wasn't the Asur's. The girl was on the bed, bound – right wrist to right ankle to right upper bedpost, left wrist to left ankle to left bedpost, her body spread in an acrobatic looking position. And she was not wounded, except the little bit of drying blood on the sheets and between her legs which spoke of her recently lost virginity.

Makareth's jaw dropped. "You… you didn't…"

"What?" Hadranir suddenly stood behind him, his long-fingered hands on his shoulders in a painful grip. "Didn't torture her?"

Makareth tried to shake off his hands again, but Hadranir seized his wrists, folding his arms with force, and pushed a knee into his lower back, forcing him onto the knees.

"Do you really think torture is all about blood and breaking bones?" The beautiful Druchii let go of him again after this demonstration of power, and walked over to the girl. Makareth noticed that he was still wearing his khaitan over his robes, despite the room being almost uncomfortably hot. Then it occurred to him that the beautiful Druchii probably hardly noticed the heat; as little as he felt touch. Hadranir held a thick candle in his hand, and he tilted it slowly and let droplets of wax fall on the girl's breasts. She was silent at first, exhausted, her silver hair sweaty and clinging to her white forehead, but she screamed when he lowered the candle and finally turned it over at once, and the wax became first uncomfortably hot and then a searing pain.

Laggoran offered him his hand to help him get up, but Makareth ignored it and stood up by himself. The former corsair grinned. "I know why you came." He tugged on the younger Druchii's trousers, and Makareth pushed him away, surprised and annoyed, but Laggoran toppled him over and they rang on the floor. Makareth growled and aimed a punch at the other's face, but Laggoran avoided it with ease, grabbed the leather bands at the closure of the younger elf's pants and ripped them. The young Druchii's kick went into empty air, and then the former corsair had his ankles in his hands and pulled both his pants and his boots off, simply shaking the kicking elf out of them.

This time Makareth managed to kick him, hitting the stronger Druchii's chin with his foot, and Laggoran backed off a bit.

"He, what are you doing?" Seemingly, the kick didn't hurt much, since the former corsair was laughing again. "I am not planning to make use of you. Why are you all so flustered?"

"No? Then why, by Morai-Heg, are you trying to undress me?" Makareth was on his feet again. Quickly, he darted towards the circle and picked up a candleholder. With this improvised weapon in his hand, he felt a bit better. Why had he been such a fool to leave his sword in his room? Carefully, he tried to retreat to the door, but Hadranir cut off his way.

"Wait, commoner." The tall Druchii raised his hands. "He wants you to take the girl, not to be taken by him. Forgive Laggoran – he sometimes doesn't think much about explaining things he does." Hadranir smiled. "We are all serving the same lord, aren't we? We want to share this wonderful pet with you."

Makareth looked at him and at the former corsair, turning his head nervously.

The girl made a soft, sighing or weeping sound. He glanced back at her. Now that he thought of it, Laggoran could have already done things to him before, in the room with Adragil. They probably really were just having a generous moment. He shrugged, put down the candleholder and went over to the white shape on the bed.

He didn't care that Laggoran and Hadranir were watching him. He traced the shapes of her bones under the light skin, let his hands wander over all those places he wished he could touch on the dancing High Elf back in the Flesh House, the slender legs, the small, delicate feet, the ankles raw from the rope, the flat, soft stomach, the hairless soft places under her arms – it tickled her, and she shook in her bonds –, the long, pointed ears and the warm skin behind them. He peeled the wax from her breasts, making her cry out, and then let himself fall onto her lithe body that was so silken and inviting, and tasted the small pink nipples and the reddened, heated skin around them, bit into her neck and kissed her collarbones, and the position she was tied in made her hips a cradle for his, and every time he moved against her it felt better. Then his patience had an end, and he knew he had to enter her, and he did. She cried, and her tears were salty and made him even more excited, and he had no more time to wait or relish the experience.

Shuddering, he was lying on top of her, his mind clearing again, a bleak, strange feeling taking hold of him. Then Laggoran pulled him down from the Asur, into his arms and whispered something into his ear. It seemed to be something reassuring, but Makareth was so stunned that he didn't understand.

"I knew you would join us." The former corsair set the younger elf down on the floor and threw him his pants. "Well, now we all had our share, it is time to return the slave to her owner."

"Didn't Hadranir buy her?" Makareth looked at Laggoran, and then at Hadranir, puzzled again.

"I just bought a couple of hours with her." Hadranir shrugged. "The price for her life was too expensive."

Makareth watched the beautiful Druchii release the girl and then throw her out into the corridor.

He felt tired and somehow a little bit empty, and was thankful when Laggoran gave him a cup with wine, drinking thirstily.

Hadranir walked over to the circle of signs and symbols and sat down in the middle of it, closing his bright purple eyes. Whispered, hardly audible words fell from his lips and dissolved like smoke in the air before they could reach Makareth on the floor and Laggoran, who sat down on the bed and then let himself fall on his back, arms under his head. Makareth understood that Hadranir was praying, calling upon his dark goddess.

"Makareth!" The former corsair called him.

The young Druchii looked from Hadranir to Laggoran and stood up. "I should go now."

"You can sleep here, with us. Hadranir won't come into bed for the rest of the night, there is enough room here." The broad-shouldered Druchii smiled and patted the sheets beside him.

Makareth thought about it briefly. The emptiness that got hold of his heart lured him into the other's arms; the thought of being close to someone was appealing. But Laggoran was certainly not the right person to be close to. Makareth imagined himself ending up tied by those same ropes that were still tangled around the bedposts, and shook his head.

He heard the former corsair laugh heartily when he closed the door behind him.

Ruathac watched him coldly when he crawled in his own bed, much less luxurious that the one in Laggoran's and Hadranir's room. Pipe smoke hung in the air heavily, a single candle lighting the Shade's face that was now free from the shawl. Angular features, slanted icy grey eyes, red spiral tattoos on his cheeks. Ruathac was handsome, Makareth thought to himself, somehow surprised. Handsome in an animal-like way, wild and untouchable.

The young Druchii scolded himself for these thoughts. It probably was Laggoran's and Hadranir's influence, with all that Atharti worshipping, aestheticism and pleasure-seeking they were constantly doing and talking about. He tried to concentrate on his ambitions, on thoughts of patience and discipline. But in his mind was the silver haired slave girl again, and he couldn't even properly hate her like every Druchii should hate the Asur. All he wanted was to feel the same fantastic sensation again that he did less than an hour before, a warm body against his, and this sweet friction that drove him crazy. Lust, he thought, pleasure. It was a new world for him, and full of wonders.

"Don't be fooled by their generosity." The Shade's voice cut the smoke-filled air. "One moment of weakness and you might lose yourself."

Makareth almost jumped up from his bed. "How do you know?"

"They tried the same with me when I first came into the service of the lord." The Shade lit his pipe again and breathed out aromatic smoke.

"Tried what? To seduce you?" Makareth imagined Laggoran making advances on the grim, calm and cold-hearted Ruathac, and the image was so ridiculous that he had to snort.

"No. To convince me to become a follower of their goddess."

Makareth's eyes met the Shades, and in the gray, stormy irises he saw that Ruathac took it all very serious. There was faith in his eyes, pride, something savage and ancient.

"I don't trust them; I don't trust their goddess." Ruathac lay back, the pipe in the corner of his mouth. "It is better not to trust any of the Cytharai."

The younger Druchii was so flabbergasted at these blasphemous words that he wasn't able to say anything. Not trust the Cytharai? That included Khaine, to whom Makareth had been praying ever since he was a little boy, and Ereth Kial, the Dark Mother – gods all Druchii worshiped. What kind of elf was Ruathac at all?

They spent two more days at Adragil's house.

Most of the time, Lykaon was reading scrolls that Adragil had given him, stolen from the ships the corsair captain had conquered, sleeping or spending his time with Hadranir behind closed doors. Once, Makareth followed them, curious and unnoticed, and listened at the door. He heard the cracking of a whip, and muffled sounds, and he to his surprise, it was Hadranir's voice that he heard crying. He didn't understand what the lord punished his liegeman for – was it for that moment of weakness that Makareth had seen on the first evening? It scared him, and he didn't try to eavesdrop on them again.

When Hadranir was not in the lord's rooms, he went to town, sometimes to the Nauglir dens to watch pit fights, and afterwards to a Flesh House to drink and gamble. Laggoran and Makareth, who spend the biggest part of both days practicing sword fighting from the back of a nauglir, something Makareth was still not very good in, came with him.

On the first of the two evenings, Makareth and Laggoran left the beautiful Druchii at the table where he argued with corsairs about cheating at a game of dice, and took two slaves with them to continue drinking in a more private atmosphere at one of the rooms upstairs. The slaves were human girls, because the former corsair was running out of gold, while Makareth had none to begin with, and Elves were too expensive. Makareth enjoyed the evening, but compared to that first night with the silver haired Asur, it was not the same. It was not only the fact that the humans were flawed, plain creatures, compared to the elf girl – the impact of the experience itself seemed to have faded in the repetition. He told Laggoran about this fact, and the former corsair shrugged, saying that it has never faded for him yet, even though he was already feeling slightly less through the constant use of nauglir poison – here Makareth found out that "the few decades" that the former corsair had been a Cold One Knight, how Hadranir called it, were in reality fifty-three years.

The second evening, Laggoran suggesting that maybe Makareth needed to try out something new, they took a human male with them, a slender youth, strangely Druchii-like in appearance, despite his small rounded ears, with dark hair, blue eyes and light, smooth skin, covered by faint, delicate scars that didn't take away any of his beauty. His graceful gestures, perfectly submissive behavior and an old branding that was later covered with that of the owner of the Flesh House, showed that he had probably grown up in a Druchii household as a born slave. The boy knew interesting tricks, he seemed to be trained expertly, but otherwise he was just as boring as the humans the day before.

Maybe Makareth was just sated after this sudden abundance of stimulation, he thought, after all that years of abstinence and living just for a certain death in some future war. How ignorant he had been back then! Of course, fighting was something wonderful – but it was just one of the possible pleasures.

Out of boredom, Makareth had practiced some of the more harmless tortures on the Druchii-like human, things that he had seen Hadranir use. Seeing the boy cry silently in his bonds, narrow red rivers running from shallow cuts, his snow-like skin striped by whip traces, excited Makareth. He wasn't able to go far, because they wouldn't be able to pay for any irreversible damage of the slave, but already a little bit was enough to make everything much more enjoyable.

There was no emptiness afterwards this time, neither. Instead, after the human left, wiping away his tears and bowing his head in respect, Makareth let himself fall into Laggoran's arms, laughing and drunken. He listened to the beat of the older Druchii's heart under the scarred, weathered skin, all precaution swept away by pleasant exhaustion, and with Laggoran's calloused hands stroking his back gently, he dozed, feeling lazier than a nauglir after a good feast.

Hadranir didn't join them in their amusement, and when they came back down he threw them jealous glares, but said nothing.

In the night, he slept well, and he didn't care about Ruathac's warning anymore. No matter how dangerous Hadranir and Laggoran might be, they didn't seem to see Makareth as threat or prey, rather as an accomplice. Lulling them into thinking he would be their ally would only make it easier for him to outplay them later – if he ever needed to. He smiled to himself, imagining their surprised faces when he would kill them for having treated him as a child and called him names in the beginning. Time for revenge would come one day, he knew; but for now he could as well play along. It did feel good, after all.


	5. 5 - Asur

**PART V: Asur**

_or: First Challenge_

When the skiff left the harbor among the other smaller ships following the Thorned, he stood at the railing, watching the dockyards and warehouses slide by. Half an hour later, there were only the grey waves of the river and the gloomy pines on its shore, and when he looked up, he could see and the black towers of Clar Karond become smaller. He heard the wind beating against the dark-colored sails, the masts creaking, and he felt ready for adventures.

The few hours the ship needed to reach the estuary where the river fell into the Sea of Malice seemed like an eternity to him. When they had reached the sea, darkness rose around the fleet, storm clouds gathering, the wind becoming stronger. The nature, forced to howl under the Sorceress' spell, seemed to sing in unison with Makareth' soul. His heart felt so full of joy that he thought it could burst, and he gripped the handle of his sword, reminding himself that he should put this fire inside him away to use it later in a fight.

Then the wind became too cold and stung his face, and he went down to the captain's cabin, where Laggoran was studying a map of a coastal line unknown to Makareth, sitting in a chair that was nailed to the planks of the floor. The cabin had been divided into two parts by a curtain sewn together from human skins, and behind the drapery, Makareth heard Hadranir talking quietly, probably to Lykaon. By now, he was a bit annoyed by the fact that Hadranir almost always was at the lord's side. If Makareth wanted to learn magic from the lord, he would have to somehow become Lykaon's favorite.

Ruathac had chosen to sleep in a hammock, among the other corsairs – he explained that he wanted to make sure that the crew wouldn't plan anything against them. Even now, he was somewhere on the boat, listening to them talking from the shadows, his crossbow always ready. Makareth was surprised at first, but after some thinking it occurred to him that the relationship between Laggoran and his brother Adragil was not as good as it seemed, and that the hidden rivalry was a constant source of danger.

"Come here, Makareth!" Laggoran waved. "Look, this is where we'll go on land. There are three villages where we can collect slaves. There is a small castle nearby, so in the worst case, we might have to fight against knights, but I hope that with the lord's magic, they won't be a problem."

"Knights? On horses? Wouldn't it have been better if we had taken the nauglir with us then?"

The former corsair – no, the corsair captain, Makareth corrected his thoughts, Laggoran was now in charge of a ship again – shook his head. "For that, we would have to go on the Thorned, and it is better not to be on the same ship as my brother and the Sorceress."

Makareth looked at the map. "Aren't there any places without knights?"

Laggoran laughed. "Foolish child, you know nothing of humans. They are not that different from Druchii, just weaker and uglier. Their nobles don't work, and the lower classes are treated similarly to slaves. Knights mean peasants who have to feed them, do all the work. Many peasants. Places without armed people are usually not full of people at all."

The young Druchii rolled his eyes. "Would you please stop calling me a child? One day, I'll kick you in the face again."

Laggoran winked. "One day, when I decide to shake you out of your pants again, you are welcome to try and do so."

"Spears would be good against cavalry." Makareth sighed, changing the subject. "I wish I had taken mine with me."

"No need for that. Like I said, we have magic, and then there are the crossbows. Plus, the humans just see a storm when we approach, and not an enemy fleet. I don't think the Knights will even be there fast enough to join in the fight."

Makareth went over to the improvised bed made from pillows, wool blankets and animal furs– the actual bed was on Lykaon's half – and sat down. He looked over to the chest that contained his and Laggoran's armor and scratched his head. "What if we are attacked suddenly? Shouldn't we be wearing the armor all the time?"

"We won't be attacked suddenly." The captain poured himself wine from a wineskin. "There will be a signal from the Sorceress if she senses the presence of other fleets close by." He turned his head to Makareth and looked at him, grinning. "You are worrying a lot. Are you afraid?"

The young Druchii shook his head. "No. But I have no experience in seafaring. I want to be prepared."

The signal came only days later.

They were now in the open waters, passed Karond Kar and were heading eastwards where they would join the bigger fleet following the Black Ark. Makareth had been at the railing of the Drannach, how their skiff was called, watching the horizon for hours, hoping to finally see the black towers and massive walls of the seafaring city, but instead he saw sea water explode in a huge fountain, and the citadel of the Thorned, sealed by magic, was thrown up into the air, the sea dragon itself appearing from underwater.

He heard the seamen talking excitedly, and he ran down and accidentally into Laggoran's black breastplate.

The captain was just leaving the cabin. He grinned and pushed the younger Druchii away. "I am glad that you feel the need to be close to me, but we have no time for that. You can put on your armor now. It is time to fight."

They were many. Dozens of slender, white ships, fighting against the storm that the Sorceress on the Thorned was summoning. A fleet from Ulthuan.

"By the Dark Mother…" Laggoran looked at the huge Asur fleet in disbelief. "What are they doing here? I have never seen traders of Asur this close to Naggaroth." He furrowed his brow. "It is a war fleet."

The storm suddenly ceased, becoming just wind, enough for sailing, but not obscuring the Dark Elven ships anymore, and from between the clouds, rays of a cold winter sun fell onto the golden and blue sails of the Asur flagship. A crest in the shape of a heron surrounded by silvery wines was on the biggest sail.

Ruathac appeared next to Makareth out of nowhere. Even on the ship, he somehow managed to hide in the shadows. "The corsairs say that they have fought against Asur under this crest last time."

Laggoran grit his teeth. "It must be the damn prince whose ships my brother raided; the father of our little silver-haired plaything. Revenge, huh?" He laughed. "I must say, I am impressed – wouldn't expect such noble motifs from our pathetic cousins."

Soon they were close enough for the Reaper Bolt Throwers, a white hawkship passing them, and at Laggoran's command, huge, spear-like bolts flew through the air and ripped holes into one of its rumps. The Asur fired back, and Makareth saw a corsair that was winding up one of the Reapers being hit by an enemy bolt and taken off board. Another bolt would have hit the side of the skiff, but out of some reason, it stopped before it reached the ship and fell into the waves with a weak splash.

There was no more time to fire another shot. The hawkship was now backboard, and Makareth saw that it held itself skewed, one of the rumps quickly collecting water through one of the more successful hits. But its crew was already firing at another skiff in the Druchii fleet.

Laggoran ordered the Drannach to continue full-speed ahead, and Makareth saw that they were heading exactly onto the side of a hawkship that was already exchanging of bolts with one of the other Druchii ships. The Asur were taken by surprise, and both the underwater thorn that the Drannach's nose was adorned with and the second, smaller thorn that was visible over the waves, crashed into their ship. The Drannach had been going so fast that it broke through the first rump of the catamaran, smashing High Elf seamen between breaking planks and the pushing skiff, and then sank its nose into the second rump. Corsairs ran over the bow and jumped onto the rest of the hawkship, slaughtering the panicking enemies.

Makareth followed, jumping onto the light planks of the broken ship. He was anxious to fight, having been waiting for this moment for a long time. A High Elf was in his way, and their swords crossed. The enemy was already wounded, blood ran from his left shoulder and down his shining chainmail, but he still swung his weapon with stubborn strength. Makareth parried a blow aimed for his stomach and pushing his sword against the High Elf's, taking his left hand to support the right, he threw the Asur back with force. The enemy needed just a split second to regain his posture, but for Makareth it was enough to run past him, using the speed to enhance the impact of his blow that was aimed for the High Elf's neck. The Asur fell, and the young Druchii rushed on to the next enemy. He brought down the weapon on the leg of one of two High Elves who had cornered a corsair at the bow of the remaining rump of the hawkship. The corsair, seeing that he was not alone in this fight anymore, swung his two curved swords with renewed vigor and severed the arm of the already falling elf with one of his weapons, then quickly striking at the other opponent with the second.

Makareth heard a swishing of a blade just a moment before it was too late. He ducked to the side, turning around. A High Elf noble attacked him, a long, broad, two handed blade in his hands, his armor shining in gold. Makareth tried to counter the blow, but his sword was simply swept away by the next hit of the huge sword, and the blade, slowed by Makareth parade enough to not cut through, hit the young Druchii's armor and indented it deeply. He thought he heard his lower ribs break, and pain rushed through his injured side. He stumbled, falling on hands and knees, forced himself to roll over to the left, instinctively knowing that the High Elf would strike again, and heard the two-handed sword break into the planks on which he was lying a moment ago. His eyes searched for some weapon feverishly, and saw the Asur he had killed first lying not far from him, sword fallen from the dead fingers. He lunged forwards, avoiding another blow of the mighty sword of the High Elf noble, and his hand closed around the handle of the bloodied weapon. Makareth jumped up, and the noble swung his sword in a wide circle, almost hitting the young Druchii. The Dark Elf threw himself onto the floor, landing just in front of the Asur. The weight of the great blade was now a disadvantage, the Asur not able to stop the curve his sword was drawing in the air fast enough, turning a little bit with the force of the blow and exposing his body to the opponent who was now too close. Makareth, still under the High Elf, pushed the sword up and into the lower body of the noble, between leg and hip, impaling him, and, using all his strength, both his sword and his shoulders, pushed the enemy up and backwards, sending him flying over the railing.

The pain returned, and he gripped the railing and tried to stay standing. Only when Hadranir, covered with blood, screamed into his ear, he realized that they had to return onto the skiff. Through a sticky, hot blur that slowly rose in his eyes, Makareth saw the other skiffs and hydra-ships in deadly embrace with their High Elven counterparts, and with horror he saw more hawkships, at least fifteen or sixteen, joining the fight. The Asur were too many! It was impossible to win against such a numerous enemy.

He finally saw his own sword on the planks, picked it up and followed Hadranir back onto the skiff that was already slowly sliding backwards, corsairs trying to tame its dark sails and using oars to push the remains of the High Elven ship off its ramming thorns. Another shower of bolts from two approaching hawkhips rained on them, but this time, all of them slowed down and fell into the water before reaching the Drannach. This time, Makareth saw the reason.

Lykaon stood on the bow of the Dranach, right hand gripping the handle of his enchanted sword, his left high in the air. He screamed words, his face a mask of hate, and the air around him was glimmering, dark arcane energies clashing around him like waves.

The hawkhips passed them on both sides, and High Elves threw slender bridges onto the deck of the Dranach. On one side of the skiff, the bridges was instantly thrown down by the corsairs, the hawkship rushing past them, but on the other side, the Asur Bolt Throwers had felled too many men, and now Asur streamed on board, and the crew was under attack.

Makareth tugged on the belts of his breastplate, and felt the pressure on his side cease, the pain subsiding somewhat. He didn't have time to take it off. Three High Elves attacked him at once, and he hardly had a chance to strike back at them, only dodging the blows and retreating. Suddenly, one of the opponents fell backwards, a crossbow bolt through his eye. Makareth used the moment to hit one of the remaining enemies, aiming for the sword arm. Blood fountained from the High Elf's wrist, his fingers losing grip of the long sword. The young Druchii parried the other elf's blow and kicked the shocked Asur who was trying to pick up the lost sword with the left hand in the face, sending him backwards and away from the weapon.

His next move was parried by the last High Elf, and Makareth's arm was swept aside by the opponent's maneuver. He had to turn his upper body to not lose his balance, and his hurt side was briefly pressed against the indented breastplate, making him howl. The Asur, with unbelievable quickness, raised his sword again and let the blade fall down on Makareth' shoulder, but the end of the shoulder plate, not sitting properly due to the belts of the armor being open on one side, moved with the blow. The direction of the hit was altered, sliding down, the sword ripping through chainmail and cutting a deep wound into the young Druchii's left arm. The High Elf continued to rain down blows on his opponent, and Makareth, parrying the first of them and dodging the second with increasing difficulty, thought that he finally found his death, now that he didn't want it anymore.

But then something whistled past Makareth' ear, and the Asur opened his eyes in disbelief, a bolt protruding from his neck. The young Druchii watched the elf's hands close on the bolt, trying to pull it out, blood spraying from his mouth and nose, and turned around. Ruathac was on one of the masts of the Drannach, holding himself up with the muscles of his torso, his legs tightly wound around the wood, the crossbow already aimed at another enemy.

Makareth followed the next bolt with his eyes. It sent a High Elf to the ground, and Makareth saw Lykaon with whom that Asur had been fighting. Then another Asur covered the sight. The Dreadlord was completely surrounded by a group of High Elves, parrying their blows with his magical blade, cutting his way through enemies, but more and more Asur joined the fight. From what Makareth had seen, the lord was not injured yet, and with awe he thought that he probably could defeat them all without them even wounding him once. But just ten or fifteen steps away, on board of the hawkship connected to the Drannach by the bridges, Makareth saw a tall High Elf dressed in flowing blue and silver robes, and the man raised his hands, his mouth forming words. His blood freezing in his veins, Makareth understood that it was a mage, and that distracted by the melee, Lykaon would now become an easy victim for the High Elf's spell.

The young Druchii jumped over the still cramping body of the dying Asur in front of him, not feeling the pain in his arm anymore, and ran for the bridge.

He landed directly in front of the mage just a second after the elf had released the spell, Makareth' sword lashing out and drawing a red, torn line on the elf's robes, returning in a backhand strike and cutting through the Asur's throat. The two High Elven guards that were flanking the mage reacted a moment too late, and Makareth found himself in the middle of a frenzied fight, a blizzard of shining metal and red-coloured hate. He didn't even see what he was doing, parrying and striking instinctively, and he knew that he must be hurt because blood was in his eyes and more was running down his back, but he didn't feel pain - only hate for the Asur and rage.

"Khaine!" His voice almost broke as he dealt another blow, his sword finally finding a place above the metal vambrace on one of the guard's arm, shattering the elbow, and then the other warrior's weapon hit against Makareth helmet, not well-aimed, but enough to make the young Dark Elf's head ring, and he lost his balance and fell onto the bridge, rolling onto his stomach and holding on to the white-painted wood to not fall into the sea, the cold waves underneath that he had not thought about till now sudden reality. His helmet, thrown off by the High Elf's blow, rolled from the bridge and fell into the water. His sword was lost again.

Stunned, Makareth raised his head and looked at the skiff. A great wave, probably summoned by the Asur mage, seemed to have washed over the deck, and those who had been not been swept away by it were now lying, unconscious, among the dead. Water was dripping from the Drannach's black sides. He didn't see Lykaon among them.

The High Elf guard stepped onto the bridge behind him, and Makareth scrambled to his feet, almost falling off, but managing to jump forwards, missing the place where the bridge was hooked to the Drannach's railing, falling and gripping the railing with his hands with one last effort. His left arm was injured, the hand on that side didn't have enough strength anymore, and he knew that he won't be able to pull himself up. The High Elf warrior walked down the bridge towards him, raising his sword.

Makareth pressed his eyes shut, awaiting the final blow, when suddenly the Asur instead grabbed his shoulder and arm and pulled him onto the bridge again, releasing him instantly after that. The young Druchii didn't know why the Asur did that, but he knew when to use a chance to survive, and he threw himself onto the Drannach, landing on the planks and rolling onto his back, ready to defend himself with his fists and feet, squinting his eyes to shut out the sunlight that was still painting the bloody scene with unreal colors.

A bolt flew through the air, and the High Elf's voice was a surprised sigh, and it was followed by a splash as he fell into of the waves beneath.

Then a clawed hand touched Makareth' cheek, and Lykaon's pale face looked down on him, the skies above at once filling with clouds again, first white and then darker shades, the storm rising around them.

Makareth tried to rise on one elbow, and Lykaon helped him sit up. Pain was returning, but the young Druchii had no time for it.

He stared at the titanic black shape appearing on the horizon, towers and castles like ghostly fingers stretched into heaven, rocks of ragged shapes in which he thought to see hateful masks and sea monsters. It was the biggest ship he had ever seen. No, it was not simply a ship – it was a whole island, an island full of death and threat, a majestic wall of black, floating closer, crushing the tiny Asur ships under its rocks as it pushed itself forwards.

They had finally reached it – or rather, it reached them. The Black Ark.

It was not a moment too late. Even though the Thorned and its fleet had fought a desperate fight against the Asur, and even though the flagship of the High Elves was already sinking, its rump damaged through the wounded sea dragon's angry attacks, all of the skiffs and hydra-ships except the Drannach were destroyed, and there had still been dozens of High Elven ships ready to erase what had remained of the small Druchii fleet.

Now more ships entered the scene, sea dragons emerging from the depth of the ocean, skiffs flying to help the Drannach and the Thorned swiftly, hydra-ships taking on a fight with their light counterparts. Within moments, the Asur fleet was no more than a memory, nine tenths of the High Elves dead and the rest disarmed and captured.


	6. 6 - The Painting

**PART VI: The Painting**

_or: A Glimpse of the Otherworld_

Makareth opened his eyes. The mist that had been seizing his mind dissolved, leaving him memories of strange faces looking at him, moving his limbs around and hurting him without an understandable reason. The faces were a bit similar to people that he knew – Ruathac, Laggoran, even Lord Lykaon, but he was not sure if it was them, because they looked distorted, twigs and spiderwebs growing out of their mouth corners when they spoke, their eyes transforming into little lizards that crawled up and down on their brow. Everything had been black and white, as if the reds, greens and blues had been drained away out of his world, and then suddenly everything turned so colourful that he had to close his eyes, but closing them didn't prevent him from continuing to see.

He sat up. Witchlight illuminated the windowless room with dark stone walls. He was sitting on a bed with dark blue sheets, thick wool blankets and carvings on the wooden bed posts that depicted hydras fighting against dragons. Other than the bed, there was only a chest with ironwork and a heavy lock on it, and a wooden tray next to the bed, with a carafe and a cup He was naked, and his hair was tangled and hung down on his back and shoulders like a black cloud.

A big fresh scar adorned his left arm, but he was able to move both the arm and his hand without any problems again. He looked for other injuries and discovered, with his fingertips, another scar that went over his shoulder and back, crossing the tattoo of the three dragons. A smaller scar was on his forehead, just above the right brow. There was no injury on his side where he remembered the armor being indented. It seemed his ribs haven't been broken after all.

He smelled at the carafe. It seemed to be wine, and he poured some into the cup and gulped it down. Whoever put him into this room wouldn't try to poison him now – otherwise they could have done so when he was unconscious.

He thought about getting up and finding out where he was, but it was cold in the room and walking around in an unknown house without clothes and armor was not tempting him at all.

He curled himself up under the covers again, shivering. Without noticing it, he was soon asleep again.

"Makareth!" Laggoran's voice sounded annoyed. "How long are you planning to continue sleeping? You haven't done anything else for three days!"

The young Druchii jumped up.

The corsair captain was sitting on the edge of the bed, in full armor, and grinning. "You've fought well… for a child like you."

Makareth felt his mouth corners go down. "I am not a child."

Laggoran stood up and threw him a key on an iron ring. "Here, put something on." He nodded to the chest.

"Where are we?" Makareth slid out of the bed and went over to the wooden chest. He found the golden hadrilkar with Lykaon's emblem in it, and new clothes. He put on the hadrilkar first.

"On the Black Ark. You and Hadranir were both wounded, you worse than him, and Lady Vestara, the Supreme Sorceress travelling with the Ark, offered Lord Lykaon her help with your treatment. I don't know why she did; it is not that you are that important. But she and Lykaon have known each other for a long time, and I guess she wanted him to owe her something." Laggoran watched the young Druchii inspect the clothing, new dark red robes with silver embroidery, black pants, a simple black Khaitan, leather boots. "Do you know that you have killed the Asur fleet's best mage? He wasn't on the flagship because they wanted to fool us, keeping his location secret. Well, it was their own fault."

"He and his guards were careless." Makareth smiled, remembering how the mage's blood fountained from his neck. He closed his new robes, a silken caress on his skin, and laced the silver cords through the holes in the front of the garment. "They should have seen me."

Laggoran nodded, crossing his arms in front of his body, vambraces clinking against black-lacquered breastplate. "They were too obsessed with killing the lord. He is a stronger sorcerer than even Akarin Runemoon, and I think they hoped that our defense would break once he was eliminated."

"Does this happen often?" Pants, foot wrappings, boots, Khaitan. "I am done."

"Usually it is us who attack – but yes." The broad-shouldered Druchii opened the door. "Come."

The Ark was no less than a city, with streets, buildings, and a circular structure of several defense rings. Makareth had the feeling that he was stil somewhere in Naggaroth. The labyrinth streets and small market places in the darkness of the Black Ark reminded him of his hometown. Narrow windows and thick walls of dark stone similar to those in the commoner's quarters in every Druchii city he has seen so far – Hag Graef, Karond Kar, Clar Karond. Square, low shapes of slave quarters, multi-story houses with bas reliefs of monsters and armies and iron-meshed window blinds, in which the Druchii lived, the towering estates of the nobles in the middle, with delicate spires and bridges on several levels – the difference between the architecture of Hag Graef or Clar Karond and that of the Ark was not great. The only difference was the light – Clar Karond was the brightest; Hag Graef ever cloaked in shadow; and here, on the Ark, it was so dark that it felt like nighttime, a cavern ceiling above them instead of skies, witchlight lanterns and torches being the only sources of light.

Laggoran explained that they were close to the center of the Ark – in the outer Layer, there were windows and entrances. They passed Druchii dressed typically for corsairs, leather and heavy coats, and slaves, carrying things or repairing something, the chains that connected their ankles just long enough to allow them to walk fast, but not to run. From somewhere, Makareth heard the well-known growl of a nauglir.

Then they entered one of the buildings and climbed endless stairs, and when they finally reached the end of the stairs and went through a door, Makareth saw a cloudy night sky through bluish, thick glass of a window. They must be somewhere on top of the Ark, Makareth thought, in one of the central towers. In the room, which was lit and heated by braziers, Druchii were sitting on benches made of wood and iron and laid out with furs and pillows. In the flickering light, Makareth recognized Lykaon and Hadranir. With them, sitting next to the Dreadlord, was a tall, black-haired Druchii woman dressed in a long, flowing purple dress and wearing a small silver diadem and many thin rings on her fingers with long painted nails. The room was big, and at least a half of it was cloaked in shadow. Makareth could make out the dark contours of a big bed with a drapery and a rectangular shape of a table in the darkness.

Hadranir was holding a flat, polished piece of wood in his left hand, and a thin paintbrush in the other. A narrow table was between the benches, and small glass and clay bottles and a metal plate with color pastes smeared on it were placed on it. He was touching the surface of the wood with fast but careful movements, layering colors and drawing ornaments that Makareth couldn't see from where he was standing. Hadranir wore a long, almost transparent blue robe; his hair, free from ribbons, teeth and bones, was a silky waterfall of raven black. Without his armour and Khaitan, the tall Druchii looked unnaturally, ethereally slim, and Makareth noticed that he was also even paler than usually. He looked up briefly, and Makareth was for a moment frightened by the emptiness and despair in the beautiful Druchii's eyes. Something was tormenting him; it was visible, almost tangible. Maybe he is still not fully recovered from his wounds, the young Dark Elf thought. But then again, Laggoran said that Hadranir was wounded less seriously than Makareth.

Lykaon leaned back on his bench, wearing the same dark silken robe that he had worn when he tattooed the young Druchii. His eyes, green and luminescent as always, were half-closed, but the expression of his face was not a bored one. His smile was less shark-like than usual, his body relaxed. A goblet with something smelling rich and herbal was in his hand, but as Makareth and Laggoran walked in, he put it down on the table between Hadranir's paints and waved them closer.

Laggoran nodded and sat down next to the painting Druchii, looking over his bony shoulder. Makareth looked around, undecided – there were no more places on the two benches. Finally, he made his decision, walked towards Lykaon and stood still one sword-length apart from him, waiting for his words.

"You seem whole again, Makareth." Lykaon watched him attentively, green eyes unblinking. Then he turned to the woman. "Thank you for your help, Lady Vestara."

The Druchii woman tilted her head, her full lips parting into a pleasant smile. "You are welcome, my dear Lykaon. I know there will be times when I might call for your assistance, and that you will return the favor." Her face, features like carved marble, turned to Makareth slowly, and her smile became a bit colder. "So you are the boy that he picked up in the commoner's quarters in Hag Graef." She squinted her black eyes.

Makareth felt awkward and a bit angry with her words, but he bowed his head deeply and answered: "I am Makareth from Hag Graef, Lady."

Her stare felt cold and scary, as if she was seeing through him, counting his bones and rejecting everything she found in his heart as unworthy.

"I have made sure that your wounds get healed, Makareth. My best apprentice took care of you. If your lord had left you to the hands of that savage retainer of his, the Autarii, then you would be dead by now." She laughed, her dark voice suddenly full of silver bells. "But I know that there is nothing you can give me in return, and so I don't ask. Just tell me… what does Lykaon see in you?" She stood up. Taller than Makareth, she raised his chin with her cool, soft fingers, her eyes, darker than the night, looking straight into his. Again there was this feeling of being read, taken apart, a mere object of research.

The young Druchii didn't know what to answer her, and so he just looked into her eyes obediently. The only Druchii women he had ever been as close to were his mother and the crazy beastmistress aunt. When the beastmistress had touched him, it was because she wanted to threaten him with yet another punishment she would inflict on him if his father didn't pay the money he owed her back. It was just to intimidate him. His mother, on the other hand, sometimes touched his cheek or his shoulder with a longing, tender look in her eyes, and the morning before Death Night, she had sat at his bed and kissed his lips softly, thinking he was still sleeping, before going out of the room to never return. Thinking of his mother, Makareth felt anger rising in his heart. She was weak. Why would she risk her life so thoughtlessly otherwise?

The Sorceress licked her lips, and her stare became hollow and hypnotizing. "A Druchii prefers death to failure; a violent end to weakness. Maybe you, little boy, were her weakness."

He darted back, horrified at the fact that Vestara had seemingly read his thoughts.

She laughed, throwing her head back, her long hair flowing around her in enchanting waves, and then suddenly stopped laughing. The expression of her face was at once gentle and benevolent, like the look in his mother's eyes when she thought he didn't see it. "Sometimes, though…" She smiled and stepped towards him again, her dress, slit on the sides, parting and revealing a glance of marble skin on the leg underneath.

Marble, yet warm, he thought, and soft, just like the thigh of that silver haired slave girl. He bit his lip, a bit embarrassed by the fact that he thought such things about a Supreme Sorceress, a bride of the Witchking.

"Sometimes it is better to embrace the weakness." And with these words she passed him, heading for the door, the metal heels of her boots clicking on the stone floor. "I will see you tomorrow, Lord Lykaon."

Hadranir raised his head and followed her with his eyes as she left, and Makareth saw that he must be under the influence of drugs – his pupils were tiny, and the single word that came out of his mouth lacked any usual melody. "Atharti," he coarsely whispered.

"Sit down, Makareth." Lykaon pointed at the now empty space next to him.

The young Druchii obeyed, holding his breath.

The lord leaned over him, reaching out and touching Makareth' left arm, tracing the scar under the silk of his robe, and then moved his hand up to his shoulder, over his chest and collar bones and over the other shoulder to his back, pressing lightly on the place where the healed wound on his back was. "You've got a lot of courage, young Druchii." Lykaon leaned back again and took his goblet from the table. He held it out to Makareth. "Here, drink."

Makareth' skin was tingling, and the inner trembling that Lykaon's voice had caused him the first times he heard it, had returned. With a shaking hand, he took the cup from the Dreadlord's hand and took a sip. It was not alcohol, but some bitter, spicy beverage that he had never tasted before.

"Adragil has returned to Naggaroth, do you know that? The sea dragon of the Thorned is wounded; the flagship's bolt thrower machines and their other mage have attacked not the citadel, but the beast itself this time. Of the five skiffs and the one hydraship that accompanied her, only the Drannach is left; and had the Asur archmage been able to cast his spell once more, and more successfully, she would have been sleeping under the waves now. I knew you would be useful." Lykaon's hand left his back.

Hadranir looked up. "Didn't help us to claim the loot, though. The corsairs of the ark and their commander got all those Asur slaves for themselves. The commander said that without them, we would have been defeated, and hence have no right to demand a share." He seemed to have regained his countenance, his face wearing on of his usual taunting expression, lips curled into a one-sided smile.

The lord turned to Hadranir. "How far are you with your… creation?" There was an amused note to his voice.

"Far from done, milord." The beautiful Druchii dipped the brush into one of the little bottles again and applied colour to the wooden surface.

Now Makareth could see what he painted. It was a strange creature, half man, half woman, with a beautiful face and a whip in its hand, delicately curved horns growing from the mane of wavy hair. "What is it, Hadranir?"

The Dark Elf looked up, purple eyes impatient and burning. "A vision. A dream."

Lykaon laughed. "I have never seen a Druchii paint before, I have to admit. You are indeed… talented, Hadranir. Though I must confess your other talent is more to my taste – there is no better art that prolonging the suffering of a victim with elegant means."

The young Druchii closed his eyes. Lykaon's words sounded as if he wanted to ridicule his beautiful liegeman; and he had praised Makareth for his courage. But Hadranir was the lord's nephew, and no matter what he did, as long as he wasn't dangerous to Lykaon, the latter would keep him as his liegeman. Makareth, on the other side, was a simple commoner; and the risk that the lord would grow tired of him was great. He had to somehow reach a better status before that happened. Become the lord's apprentice in magic, or use the fact that he was much more noticed as the Dreadlord's retainer than as a spearman to earn a noble title through his deeds at war.

He asked himself what he would have to do to reach his goal; and he answered, silently, that he would do everything. No matter if he would have to kill myriads of enemies, save the lord's life ten more times, torture thousand slaves to death for him, or share the bed with him, or paint pictures, or accept being whipped like he knew the lord did to Hadranir in Clar Karond. Even if he had to become a passionate follower of Atharti.

An elven slave brought in a bowl of the same beverage that Lykaon was drinking and a scoop, put it down carefully on the table – Hadranir slapped her hand aside when she tried to rearrange the paint bottles for that, and put them away himself –, left the room and soon returned with four new cups and a tablet with dried fruit and smoked meat, before disappearing again.

Laggoran had been sitting there quietly till now but now stood up, took a cup and filled it with the drink. He emptied the cup in one gulp and then turned to Lykaon. "I would like to go down to gamble with the corsairs, milord, and to the slave dens. Would you mind if I left you now?" He looked over to the young Druchii. "Or maybe, you would like to go with me, Makareth?"

Lykaon frowned. "Enjoy your time there, Laggoran – but I would prefer the other two to stay with me tonight. Their wounds are just recently healed; I will need them in battle soon and don't want them to damage themselves in one of your amusements."

The corsair captain left. Just a moment later, Rhuatac emerged from the darker half of the room, and excused himself as well. His icy eyes threw Makareth a warning again.

"So, Hadranir, would you tell us about your vision?" The Dreadlord spoke to Hadranir but he was looking at Makareth.

The young Druchii looked back, and his heart beat fast. Tell me, show me, he begged in his mind, what must I do to become irreplaceable to you, my Lord?

But there was no answer.


	7. 7 - Bretonnia

**PART VII: Bretonnia**

_or: Not a Challenge_

They didn't stay on the Ark for long.

Since Adragil and the Thorned had returned to Naggaroth, the sea dragon wounded and unable to continue the long journey to the coasts of the old world, and the Drannach was the only ship left of the original fleet, its crew was almost completely erased, corsairs from the Ark came with them onto the skiff.

After that evening on the Ark when Hadranir had spoken feverishly about his strange visions, Makareth had begun to despise the tall elf.

To his own surprise, Makareth didn't remember much of Hadranir's story. The beverage that Lykaon made him drink had been a drug, and he had been relaxed and full of joy and his mind had been wandering away from the Hadranir's words all the time. He had indulged in grandiose fantasies of a glorious future, hundreds of won wars and of the final reclaiming of Ulthuan by the Druchii, with Makareth as their general and Lykaon their greatest mage.

But he did remember that there was something unholy and unclean, even for a Druchii heart, in those bitter-sweet dreams of which Hadranir told them. It had reminded him faintly of his own nightmare after the death of the assassin in that cavern between Hag Graef and Clar Karond.

The more he thought about it, the more Makareth was sure that Hadranir was lost – something was eating him up from the inside, devouring his soul, a fervent, desperate addiction. In the eyes of the young Druchii, Hadranir's behavior was a showcase of horrible weakness. Maybe it was just the insult of being rejected by Lykaon in favor of Hadranir that spoke in Makareth, because he still hadn't found a way to replace the beautiful Druchii at the lord's side – but he swore that he wouldn't fall into the same trap, and would not lose his mind and will to the dark goddess whom Hadranir worshipped.

Not that it was wrong to follow Atharti, he pondered, but there was a difference between faith and madness, and Hadranir, for sure, was already insane.

As a result of this resolution, he avoided the company of Hadranir. And since it was almost impossible to be at Lykaon's side without seeing Hadranir, he spent more time with Laggoran and Ruathac. Laggoran, though very inclined to find physical pleasure, be it wine, fine meals or beautiful bodies of men and women, wherever he found a possibility for it, seemed to be strong and independent, always in control of and never a slave to his passions. Ruathac was even better at it – nothing could make him tremble, neither fear, nor lust – and the more Makareth saw of his actions and demeanor, the more he wished, secretly, that he had been born among the Autarii who were free and proud, cruel and unyielding, like the rock of the mountains they called their home.

Ruathac was not very interesting to be with, though. He was by far more relaxed, feeling no more danger, now that Adragil and his men were not around them anymore to plan any possible treason; but it didn't make him more communicative. He rarely spoke. If he was not sleeping – still in the hammock, despite the necessity to eavesdrop on the crew not being there anymore – , eating, exercising to keep his body strong and agile, smoking his pipe or taking care of his weapons, he just sat somewhere in the shadows unmoving.

Days passed in boredom for Makareth. For the first two days after his visit on the Ark, he had did nothing most of the time, lying in the cabin, listening to the waves breaking against the rump of the Drannach and hoping that her swaying would lull him to sleep. It became unbearable soon, and he began looking for something to do.

The next two weeks, he wandered around on the deck, watching corsairs when they shifted the sails for a turn. Once he got on the nerves of the helmsman, standing behind him and looking at the wheel, till the corsair drew a dagger and hissed that he would cut his throat if he didn't leave him alone. He stared at the human slaves chained to their benches at the oars, listened to them talking to each other in their ugly language when they thought no one of the Druchii was there. Finally, he discovered the chart room which was located in the citadel of the ship just above the captain's cabin, and tried to read maps, but he had absolutely no idea how to. He climbed onto one of the two main masts of the skiff and sat on it for hours, looking ahead into the endless slate-gray sea, over the dragon figurehead of the Drannach and its nose with the ramming thorn visible upon the water, listening to the wind howl in the dark waxed sailcloth; or watching the majestic black island of the Ark with its monumental masts and sails that grew out of its towers like surreal branches. He counted the smaller ships of the fleet they were traveling with, and came to the conclusion there were about twenty-three slender skiffs, five catamaran-like hydra-ships and probably three or four sea dragon fortresses – those didn't travel on the surface, so he could only try to remember their number from the day they helped the Drannach against the Asur.

The Drannach, just like all other skiffs, was a small ship designed mostly for support of an Ark or a sea dragon fortress during sea combat and landing operations. It had just enough room for about hundred slaves and fifty Druchii of the crew, and soon he had seen everything and everyone on it.

At last, he tried to learn about maps and the sea from Laggoran. It didn't really interest him that much, neither, and after he fell asleep over a map – which lead to Laggoran gripping the younger Druchii's head by the hair and hitting it against the map-table, jokingly, but painfully, to wake him up again – Laggoran taught him the crude language of the people of the Old World instead. Not the one of those they planned to fight against during the raid, but that spoken by most of the humans of the north-western parts of that continent, Reikspiel. Makareth seemed to have a talent for languages, and soon they were able to exchange sentences in Reikspiel, though the young Dark Elf had some difficulties pronouncing the words. His attempts made the corsair captain, who spoke many tongues of the world fluently, laugh.

At other times, Laggoran trained him to fight with the sword on the deck of the skiff. The broad-shouldered Druchii was a much better teacher than Makareth' grandfather had been. Instead of subjecting the young Dark Elf to fear of punishment, he used words of praise when Makareth did something exceptionally well, and made fun of him when he failed. The young Druchii soon noticed that he was in fact improving.

The constant wine drinking with the corsair captain, and sometimes with the new crew, made his head heavy and hurting in the most mornings, and he was a bit worried that it would influence his ability to fight. But Makareth' refuse to take the goblet that Laggoran offered him made the older Druchii angry. Laggoran beat him up the first time he did it, saying that Makareth offended his honour by not drinking with him, and the young Druchii, too ashamed of his defeat to ask Lykaon or Ruathac for help, gave up. Counting days had become more difficult, and Makareth sometimes didn't even remember what he had done the day before when he woke up; but altogether it must have been something around three or four more weeks of travel till they reached Bretonnia. At least Laggoran's company did bring more advantages than problems, and these weeks passed quickly.

And so it came that the day before the landing, Makareth was suffering under the worst hangover possible. He spent the whole day in the bed of furs and blankets, trying to sleep. Laggoran and Lykaon were talking to the crew, and Ruathac was somewhere on the ship. Hadranir had emerged from the other half of the cabin briefly, already in his shining silversteel armor, and then went back behind the curtain after throwing Makareth a condescending look.

The young Druchii thought about fighting, and he knew that he would be able to, even now – but still he wished he hadn't drunk that much yesterday. Especially not that stronger beverage out of Laggoran's flask that smelled like pure spirits.

But later in the evening, after having forced himself to eat some fish soup, he felt better, and when the night came and the sloping coastline of Bretonnia became visible on the horizon, he was full of energy and eager to spill blood again.

Laggoran quickly explained their plans to him. The Drannach would leave the main fleet of the Black Ark before the coastal patrols of the humans engaged the fleet in a fight. Contrary to their original idea, they would not raid the three villages but wait till the whole coastline was under attack by the rest of the fleet. They would go on land later and wait for the Bretonnian noble and his knights to be notified and ride out to the help of the peasants. Then they would attack the castle and steal all the riches within, and those people who have sought protection inside, overrunning the few warriors that would probably still be there. It was a risky plan, because the castle was protected by its walls and they had no catapults, but Lykaon would use magic to help them get into the castle.

From the ship, Makareth watched the few Bretonnian coastal patrol boats being crushed like flies by the seadragons, and then he saw the many skiffs of the fleet reach the shore in the darkness, the Druchii swarming out like a black wave of destruction. He heard bells somewhere from the shore, ringing loud in a deep, mournful sound, and was jealous of those who already got to fight.

When they finally went on land, the small landing boat scratching the sand, Makareth jumped onto the ground first, suppressing a joyful cry.

They moved silently through the forest until they saw their goal. The crudely build, simple castle was placed on the hill, a moat around it, the gates closed. The tall quader of the castle keep, located at the northern wall of the inner bailey, was overlooking the latter's higher walls and the mossy, grey battlement of the outer castle. Smaller towers on four corners of the outer wall spied into the darkness through arrow loops and narrow windows, to the forest on the north and north-west and already harvested fields as well as vast meadows of the surrounding villages to the east and south.

To get closer to the gates, they had to move further south, and they stayed in the shadows of the trees for as long as possible. The corsairs waited for Lykaon's sign. The lord stepped forward, looking at the guards who were pacing on the battlement, and his face took on a longing, dreaming expression. His mouth formed words, but this time his voice was not full of hate. Instead, it was a soft whisper, seductive and enchanting, and Makareth felt a shiver go down his spine, his whole body aching in sudden desire. The air began to glow around Lykaon, a simmering, purple light radiated from his hands as he formed an unknown sign with his fingers. And then the light faded again, and the darkness now seemed to be even deeper than before.

One of the guards on the battlement suddenly stood still and looked over to the trees. For a moment, Makareth feared that they were detected, but then the human slowly moved again and soon disappeared from view.

The corsairs waited. After some time, they became impatient, and Makareth heard them move around in the darkness. Laggoran whispered a warning, and silence returned.

After long minutes, the bridge suddenly moved, creaking loudly, and then it was let down and touched the earth on the other side of the moat. Rattling of heavy chains, audible for sharp elven ears even from this distance, indicated that the iron gate was drawn up as well.

"Now!" Laggoran grinned and directed his steps towards the gate, closely followed by Lykaon, who, despite the heavy armor, moved swiftly and soundlessly. The corsairs followed, moving quickly over the short range of meadow south of the moat, the starless, cloud-filled sky not giving enough light for the human eye to see them. Makareth followed, his hand drawing his sword, Hadranir and Ruathac running beside him.

They entered the castle through the gate just in time – the bewitched guard had slain the two men that had attacked him when they noticed him opening the gates without an order, but now more of the humans were streaming towards the gate, and the first of them already had his hands on the mechanism that would let down the gate again. Laggoran's foreign sword pierced the humans heart, but the gate was already set in motion, and it began to slide down. Laggoran kicked the dying man away from the mechanism and gripped the handles of the reel, stopping it, hanging all his weight on it. The other humans rushed to him, but the six corsairs that had already passed the gate quickly gathered around their captain, parrying the clumsy strikes and dealing out deadly blows.

As soon as Lykaon approached, the humans seemed to be distracted – they were hardly able to raise their swords, and as he spoke one husky command, they fell onto the ground, writhing in agony or in ecstasy. Only two of the defenders of the castle were not affected by the mysterious influence of the lord and attacked him instead. Laughing, Lykaon swung his sword, beheading the two in one strike, seeing the rest of the humans at the gate being disarmed and bound by the corsairs around Laggoran, future slaves for Naggaroth. Then he screamed another spell. Ghostly arrows left his fingers, piercing the armor of the three remaining guards on the battlement that were aiming their arrows at the invaders. The gate was only half closed when Laggoran managed to block the mechanism, and it was enough for the rest of the Druchii to get in.

Most of the corsairs ran to the low, simple buildings in the outer castle, but finding them empty, joined the Dreadlord and his liegemen on their way to the inner gate. Ruathac jumped onto the wall, his fingers finding the smallest gaps between its roughly-cut stones, and quickly climbed up. A human appeared on the inner battlement, leaning down, a bow in his hands, but before he could shoot at the Shade, one of the corsairs fired a hand crossbow, and the human fell backwards, a small bolt between his eyes. Makareth heard another man cry out and then gurgle, and then Ruathac was on the other side of the gate, his dagger striking like a snake and finding the throat of a human in chainmail, pushing the bleeding man away from him. Then, not even looking at more armed men running towards him through the inner bailey, he turned the crank of the mechanism to open this second gate.

As soon as the gate rose just enough for a Druchii to crawl through, Makareth threw himself onto the floor and rolled through the gate, instantly standing up and jumping forwards to cut off the way of the human warriors that just reached the Shade. Metal clashed against metal as the young Druchii parried the blow of the human. His opponent instantly struck again, but his attack was too rushed and inaccurate, and missed the Dark Elf. Makareth let his sword fall down onto the man's head with full force, and the sharp blade cut through the chainmail hood and split the human's skull, and the other enemies backed off as more Druchii joined the fight. The defenders saw themselves outnumbered, and they ran to the castle keep, but the faster and more dexterous Dark Elves followed them, howling in delight, and slew them before they could reach the wall.

The rest was easy. The few armed men that were left were slaughtered, and the villagers that had managed to reach the castle, fleeing from the destruction that the bigger fleet brought down upon their homes were soon driven together into a helpless herd in the middle of the inner bailey.

Lykaon and his four liegemen entered the castle, in search of the family of the human noble to whom the castle belonged, followed by a smaller group of corsairs. The seamen were attentive to anything of value, taking it with them, and where they had been, the walls and chests were now void of their simple tapestries and anything that was made of gold and silver. They at last found the lady of the house and her handmaidens in the highest room of the castle keep. They were not alone – four men in armor that was better made that that of the humans they had killed outside stood there to protect the women.

The corridor was too narrow for all Druchii to fight at the same time. Makareth and Hadranir rushed to the warriors and arrived there first, engaging them in a fight. Hadranir seemed to be well again, for his singing swords were a blur of shining metal. While the younger Druchii dodged the blows of two of the humans and then ducked and slid between them, standing up behind them and giving room for more Druchii to attack from the front, Hadranir had already beheaded one of the men and was now forcing another to move backwards with a rain of fast, hardly visible strikes.

Laggoran and Lykaon stepped up to the fighting group, and the defense of the armored humans weakened at once, just as that of the men at the gate. Makareth moved his sword across the leg of one of the humans whose back was now in front of him, at the place where the knee joint sat and where the armor plates had a gap. The sword didn't damage the chainmail and the leather beneath, and only the force of the hit made the human cry out and bend his leg. It was enough for Laggoran to use the moment to plunge the point of his foreign, gently curved blade into the face of the man under the steel helmet, pulling it out bloody, and the armored man fell to the wooden floor, shaking.

Hadranir's opponent lost one arm to the beautiful Druchii's attack, and though he tried to fight on, soon the blood loss, leaving him too weak to still carry the weight of the armour plate, forced him to his knees as well.

The last defender tried to get past Lykaon and flee, but whatever this strange spell was that Lykaon's presence put on the enemies, it made the human slow and clumsy, distracted by something. The lord smiled, letting the man past him and striking from the back, and the magic weapon crushed the shoulder guard of the human and cut through the whole backplate till it reached the hip. The corsairs, who had hoped to spill more blood here too, cursed in disappointment.

Hadranir walked to the group of the crying women, and smiled. Makareth knew the many lively, different expressions that the tall Druchii's face was able to produce well by now, and it was clear to him that this smile was meant to be lovely and gentle. But his filed teeth made it frightening to the human females, and one of the maidens jumped up and tried to run to the narrow window of the castle keep. Hadranir lounged forwards and grabbed her arm, pulling her close. "No, my little animal, you won't run anywhere!" he said in Druhir. The singsong of his voice was excited, and Makareth almost felt the greed in it. The human shivered and screamed. Of course, she hadn't understood him.

The knights, if they even survived the assault of the main fleet, didn't make it back to the castle in time. The Druchii hadn't lost a single man, and the mood among the crew was good. As Lykaon, his retainers and the Drannach's crew returned onto the skiff, they brought gold and jewels with them, robbed from the castle, and seventy-two slaves, among which were also the beautiful handmaidens of a Bretonnian noble lady and the lady herself, skin unmarred by illness that stems from undernourishment, hands left soft as silk by the lack of manual labor. Makareth thought that Lykaon – and Laggoran, who, as the Captain of the ship, would get a big share of what they found – would want to sell them. But he overheard Lykaon talking to Hadranir quietly, and learned that the fate of the women was a different one. For the ritual, the lord had said, and Hadranir's purple eyes were ablaze, his slender body trembling with anticipation. The ghostly music that Hadranir always seemed to dance to had returned, for his steps were again light and swaying, and he drank and feasted together with the others the evening after they left Bretonnia's coasts.

The Drannach followed the Black Ark again, taking a course around the coast and participating, this time as a part of the big fleet, in more assaults on human trading ships and villages. Fighting against humans was simple, every Druchii worth at least five of them in battle, and usually, the corsair fleet had more numerous troops, too. It didn't excite him anymore. But he liked the fire. The corsairs set the villages they robbed of their population and supplies on fire, leaving nothing but destruction and barren land behind. It was so much like harvesting, and left him with a pleasant feeling of having completed a task.

They finally turned back west after a few months. This time, the long journey over the ocean was not troubled by further encounters with the Asur, and the travel has once again become boring. To keep the Druchii crew busy, Laggoran and Lykaon chose three of the weakest humans as toys for them, and Makareth heard the victims scream all through the journey. The other newly caught slaves in the bilge were frightened, but Laggoran didn't allow the crew to inflict too much cruelty on the rest of them.

Makareth lazed around in the cabin most of the time, listening to the delicious cries of pain, drinking with Laggoran when the captain was not with his crew, listening to Hadranir and Lykaon talk about the politics of Naggor, and dreaming of future glory. He knew he would get a share of the abundant loot, and the thought that it would probably be more than what his father earned in three years filled him with delight.


	8. 8 - Sameira's Guests

**PART VIII: Sameira's Guests**

_or: A Moment of Peace Inbetween_

They brought the slaves on land in Karond Kar. It was cold, as the short summer of Naggaroth was already nearing its end, and hail was going down on the pier. The wind, seemingly changing directions, unsteady here on the island of Karond Kar, cried in the sails as they were folded together like dragon wings, and the Drannach, anchored in the harbor, was creaking and fighting with the weather. A thin cover of ice was building on the docks cut from black rock, fed by the waves breaking against it and the cold air.

Despite the stormy day, a huge crowd of Druchii was cheering at the pier. There were commoners as well as nobles, even a Highborn or two. From over the crowd, he caught a glance at a crowned head of a Sorceress, who was watching the slaves from a Cold One chariot, biting her perfect lips in curiosity. They were all drawn to the magnificent show.

Chained, the slaves walked from the landing bridges onto the black pier, motivated by the cracking of the whips of the slave drivers, and Makareth couldn't believe his eyes when he saw how numerous the humans the fleet had captured were. There were thousands marching and shuffling along the road from the docks.

"Don't fall off the railing, child." Laggoran patted his shoulder, passing by. "Lord Lykaon and I have to go and negotiate with the harbor administrative. Soon it is our turn to unload our freight, and I want to make sure we get a good price for those that we plan to sell here. Stay here and keep an eye on the ship."

The young Druchii nodded, absentminded. His eyes were drawn to the spectacle. Every time a slave was too clumsy, going a bit out of the row, and one of the slave drivers, riding along the line on a nauglir, smacked the whip across the unlucky human's back or legs, laughter rose from the crowd. Once a young woman lost her balance on the slippery stone, and fell. The other slaves, though trying to avoid stepping on her, were urged forwards as if nothing had happened, and the human female, dragged on by the chains of the slave that had been walking in front of her and hit by the feet of those behind, screamed in pain and terror. The Dark Elves, watching her struggle, jeered, the crowd moving in a blood-thirsty wave. Even Makareth had to laugh at the girl's clumsy attempts to get back up. Humans were such dumb animals, he thought, no grace in their movements. Even a nauglir would show a better sense of balance. Finally, the young woman managed to stand up, and continued walking, tears flowing down her dirty face, her body full of bruises, and Makareth heard disappointed sighs from the Druchii all around.

Other humans were less lucky. Some were dragged onwards until they skin was torn to bloody shreds, their screams an eerie music of fear and hopelessness; some that fell were trampled to death by those behind them, their arms finally cut from the chains by the beastmasters after they died. The columns of slaves marched towards the markets, and Makareth saw their endless line, overshadowed by the Slavers' and Beastmasters' towers, which loomed above the city, monster and gargoyle sculptures crawling up their weathered walls, their filigree arches, spurs and balconies adorned with curtains and ornaments of bones and skulls.

And then the jeers of the crowd became even louder, a storm of voices screaming curses and ridiculing the next column of slaves. The Asur seamen they had fought against were now walking along the road, their pace still somewhat graceful, but their former proud posture now just a memory, heavy steel collars around their necks, and chains around their wrists and ankles. They didn't look at those who threw offenses and jokes at them; instead most of them looked straight ahead, trying to ignore the crowd. The Asur were dirty and bruised, and a couple of them had hundreds of scabbed wounds – not from the fight itself, since it has been months since then, rather because the crew of the ship that had brought them wasn't able to abstain from showing them their hate.

Among the slaves walked a tall elf who reminded Makareth of the silver-haired slave girl so much that the young Druchii assumed he must be her relative – maybe even her brother or father who had tried to avenge her captivity and bring her back. The High Elf male was white-skinned as she had been, and his hair, now light blond at the roots, was dyed silver. Even the scornful, rebellious eyes of the man had the same deep blue colour and form as those of the girl. Makareth smiled to himself at the thought that this one would be the perfect pet for Laggoran; the man was just as beautiful as his daughter or sister had been. And it was an Asur – they, contrary to the mindless and simple humans that composed the mass of the slaves brought to Naggaroth, were really worth breaking them! Pity that the corsair captain was not here to watch this creature stride by, chains ringing, face an expression of helpless anger.

When Laggoran and the Dreadlord came back and the slaves that the Drannach carried finally went on land, Makareth was already a bit bored by the show and tired. The constant screaming and wailing hadn't stopped even when he wasn't seeing any of the slaves fall and being dragged or trampled to death, and slowly he suspected that the sound came from somewhere else. But he would find out later. He yawned and wished he could have something to eat. His stomach growled.

Laggoran, with a smug grin on his face, punched him in the side playfully. "You'll get plenty to eat tonight at the feast we are invited too."

"Invited?" Makareth drew up a brow.

"You will see. Lykaon has a relative here, a Highborn Lady, and he has given her some gifts she is absolutely delighted by. We are staying at her house for the next days and nights before we begin our journey to Naggor." Laggoran sighed. "The only thing that worries me is that my brother seemingly just left Karond Kar this morning when he heard of the Drannach's return. I wonder why he had been here for so long, far from my family's shipyards, and what he is up to."

Makareth looked up at the corsair captain. "Say, Laggoran… Who will lead the Drannach's crew now that you go to Naggor with Lykaon?"

"The new mate of the crew seems to be relatively trustable. He was only a simple seaman on one of the other skiffs before, and glad to have a more advanced position. Additionally, one of my cousins, who usually travels with the Ark, has agreed to bring the skiff back to Clar Karond for a handful of gold." He shrugged. "It is my brother's own fault for not leaving any instructions, so he has to accept my decision."

"Don't you miss your life as a captain?"

"Sometimes, I do. But there are some things between Adragil and me that would need to be taken care of before I can take back the Thorned and build a new fleet; having only a skiff under my command is not enough for me. I am from a Highborn family, even though you might not have noticed it from my behavior." Laggoran's dark eyes narrowed. "Maybe I have been too nice to you, little commoner. Don't underestimate me."

Makareth stepped back, raising his hands in an apologizing gesture. "No, I wouldn't want to underestimate you, dread one! I just know that your talent with seafaring is great, and I wondered…"

"Stop this flattering!" The broad-shouldered Druchii glared at the younger elf and turned away, walking to the landing bridge in an angry pace.

Makareth learned where the screaming sound came from when they rode down the road towards the market. The horse he sat on, borrowed at the harbor, was used to it and didn't flinch; but the young Druchii was scared when the sound suddenly became louder as they neared the first of the Slavers' towers. He looked up and saw ghostly lights glowing in the eyeholes of the skulls, fen fire wandering across the curtains of bones held by thin metal wire. And he understood it were the souls of the creatures that lost their life on the docks and the long road to the market, continuing their wailing song even after death.

After they arrived at the estate of the Highborn they would stay at, Makareth has gone to search for Hardranir and the lord. Laggoran seemed to be a bit angry at him since the last conversation, and Ruathac, as usually, disappeared in the shadows, saying he wants to make sure everything is alright with the location.

The estate was enormous; its main part was the tower-like palace that overlooked the road to the market, closer to the center of the city where the wind was less strong, leaving the sculptures and bas reliefs of its intricately carved stone walls intact. Other parts of the estate were a broad, low-roofed, thickwalled building with several entrances that Makareth thought to probably contain the slave quarters and the stables of nauglir, and a big, dome-like structure with four smaller towers surrounding it. Ornate bridges of black iron connected the main palace to the other buildings.

Makareth found Hadranir in the dome-like building. The other liegeman stood upon the narrow bridge over the cavern that was big enough to contain a whole sea dragon, looking down. Deafening growls that sounded like they could cause an earthquake and sometimes a shrieking, howling sound were heard from underneath. Two voices, a male and a female, both Druchii, were exchanging short, enigmatic commands. There was another sound that reminded of a cracking of a whip – a swishing, singing sound and a loud, jingling thud. Makareth stepped on the bridge. It was made of stone and iron, and very stable. Ornaments in the blackened iron railing depicted monsters of all kinds and stylized figures of Druchii fighting them. Makareth found that the depictions of the Druchii were not quite well made – they were somehow less detailed than the monsters. Whoever had watched over the people that forged this railing had been a bit distracted.

He walked up to Hadranir and stood next to him, looking into the cavern too. He held his breath. A young hydra, not yet grown out, was trained by two beastmasters. It was just a baby, only a bit bigger than a nauglir, but when it growled, it growled with all its heads, and when it tried to bite, all its snouts opened their fang-filled mouths. The beastmasters tried to make it walk in one direction without being distracted by chunks of meat hanging from poles in the floor of the cavern. The goal at the end of the path was just another chunk of meat, slightly bigger than the others as a reward. As Makareth looked more closely, he saw that the chunks of meat had pieces of fabric, leather and metal clinging to them. Some were even still recognizable as Druchii.

Hadranir smiled sweetly at Makareth. "Isn't it absolutely fantastic, this wild creature? They are hatched tiny and almost helpless, but they are, in a way, always free. No matter who tried to prime them to follow them, sooner or later they will break away from that earliest bond and try to eat whomever has been their 'mother' for the first time. They know no emotions, no hate, no need to avenge, no loyalty… Only the aggression that is caused by hunger."

Makareth nodded. "It is a wondrous thing indeed, the hydra. I have never seen one before."

The beautiful Druchii watched the beastmistress swing a chain whip and hit one of the necks of the Hydra when it tried to snap at a still complete body at one side of its predestined path. What Makareth had thought to be a corpse at first, had let out a weak, trembling cry of despair when the snout of the monster, having missed it, turned away again. "Look, Makareth… that one is not even dead yet. Such an interesting way to die, being impaled on a pole in the hydra pit."

With horror, the younger Druchii looked at the twitching thing on the pole. It was recognizable as a male Druchii still wearing a khaitan in colours usually worn by the city guard of Karond Kar. What had he done to end up like that, with an iron stake that went from through his body, from between his legs to his shoulder, left to die for hours – or even days, in case the hydra baby was obedient to its beastmasters?

Hadranir noticed the discomfort that the thoughts caused his younger companion and put an arm around his shoulder. "Don't worry, this won't happen to you. The guys who end up here have usually done something really despicable, like offending a Sorceress or stealing from a Highborn. I don't think you are even strong-willed enough to commit one of those crimes." He laughed, melodically, and let go of Makareth again.

The young Druchii looked at Hadranir, feeling a smug smile on his own lips. "Well, sometimes being strong-willed is not of advantage; aren't you, dear Hadranir, usually the one who is all for embracing our own weaknesses?"

Hadranir's face went pale, and he shook his head, the many thin braids with purple ribbons in them moving, the bones and teeth woven into them clicking against the silver steel of back and shoulder plates. The next moment, he suddenly was very close, his face only an inch from the younger Druchii's. He grabbed Makareth by shoulder and waist and bent him back over the railing in a parody of an embrace. Makareth wanted to push him away, but his hands only clawed helplessly at the beautiful Druchii's ornamented back plate, his instincts telling him that if he didn't hold on to the other Dark Elf, he would fall down into the hydra pit. Hadranir's sharp teeth scraped at the skin between Makareth' armor and chin, only lightly, but threatening, as if the older Druchii was a wolf that just defeated an opponent and now held his throat between the jaws as a symbol of being victorious.

"Weakness? You know nothing of Atharti's power yet, child!" Hadranir pulled him back and released him from his grip.

For a moment Makareth thought of attacking Hadranir and throwing him into that same cavern he had just almost fallen into. But before he was even able to draw his sword, Hadranir has turned away and left, his swaying stride carrying him to the high double doors at the other end of the bridge.

Makareth had lost the interest in watching the training of the hydra, and he followed the other liegeman, cursing under his breath.

Hadranir was already on the bridge between the building containing the hydra pit and the main house of the estate, and the wind, howling with the voices of the dead slaves from the walls of the main tower, played with the braids and the seams of his Khaitan and robes. He turned around, seeing the younger Druchii following him, and waited for him to catch up. Once again, his beautiful face was wearing a pleasant smile. "Don't think that I am trying to offend you, Makareth." The singsong of his voice was carried away by the wind, but Makareth was able to understand him, reading his lips. The next sentence was too long and complicated to do so, and seeing Makareth' puzzled expression, Hadranir laughed and gestured the other to follow him.

They entered the main house and proceeded into the dining hall. The hall was full of Druchii in small groups, sitting at heavy tables of dark wood, eating from silver plates and drinking wine. There were a couple of Highborn, surrounded by their entourage, and respectfully avoided by the rest; the rest of the tables were for lesser nobles and their retainers. Makareth followed Hadranir, careful to not break the rules of Hithuan towards any of the nobles.

Hadranir lead him directly to the place where Lykaon was sitting, Laggoran by his side. The lord was talking to a Druchii woman sitting at the head of the main table, clad in a gold-embroidered black khaitan. Her chair was almost throne-like, covered in dark red dyed leather made from dwarven skin, with golden ornaments and rubies encased in the gold. The Sorceress Vestara was also there, sitting at the Highborn Lady's right, her dark gaze lying possessively and warily on the other woman.

The Lady at the head of the table was young, and she was very unlike the Sorceress – her broad shoulders, posture and the two swords at her sides, with jeweled hilts, in intricately adorned scabbards, and the fact that she wore a breastplate of silversteel even in the house showed that she was a not only a Highborn, but also a warrior.

A female warrior was not a rare thing among the commoners, indeed there were not many differences between males and females among them; life was hard, and without weapons, you didn't survive for long. The Brides of Khaine, murderous priestesses of the Bloodhanded God, also wore weapons everywhere they went. For lesser nobles, it was already less typical; many of their females only touched a sword for training or during a war, and abstained from dressing in steel and leather at other times. For a Highborn lady, at last, such martial behavior was highly unusual. Most of them who were not bound to the Convent or the Temple spent their life in luxury and intrigues, playing out one of their lovers against each other in pursuit of greater political power. This one, though, was no cunning seductress. Instead, she had an air of resolute wildness about her, of iron will and innocent pride.

But her face, perfect and without a single scar, bearing a faint semblance to Lykaon's and Hadranir's, was not less attractive than Vestara's. In fact, Makareth had to confess to himself that her resembling to the Dreadlord and his nephew made her even more attractive. She lacked the signs of age and the scars that Lykaon had, and where the Lord's features were chiseled and cruel, hers were more fine and almost childlike, but still of the full of the same self-esteem and knowledge that she was superior to most others around her. With Hadranir she shared the same big, purple eyes and the full lips, which suited her more feminine face much better than his.

"My cousin, I have missed you at the table!" She directed her words to Hadranir without standing up.

Hadranir walked towards her, and standing at the distance of three steps, he bowed. "Lady, I have been looking at your newest pet. I must say, the beastmasters that work for you are wonderfully skilled!"

The woman smiled coldly. "I bet you have been rather looking at the training materials, Hadranir, the whips and the convicts on the poles. But enough of that. Please take a seat at your lord's side and join us in our meal." Her look fell on Makareth, and she turned to Lykaon. "Is this the boy that you have chosen to take your late nephew's place? He is wearing our dead relative's clothes, and I must say I consider it highly unfitting for a commoner to do so!"

The Dreadlord's green eyes became narrow slits of discontent. "I have told you already that I have sent a message to the Witchlord, a petition to grant this boy a rank among the nobles. He has fought exceptionally well during our encounter with the hated Asur, and if not for him, I might be already dead. My petition will be surely answered in my favor, and he will be taken into my household as a replacement for the Hadranir's treacherous brother. I want the journey we just came from to be considered the boy's Hakseer."

Makareth dropped his jaw in disbelief. Did the lord just say that Makareth was soon to become a noble? Usually, the Drachau of a city gave and took the titles – but in Naggor, the Witchlord Balneth Bale was the highest of rank, and if he agreed with Lykaon, then one of Makareth' dreams was soon to become reality.

"Hakseer, the coming-of-age raid? It hasn't even been a year!" The lady snorted in distaste. "And he is too young according to the tradition, too. But maybe I just don't understand the rules in Naggor. Then again, I don't have to."

Lykaon shook his head. "It has been almost a year. What we brought back was more than a usual year's loot – even though the most precious of the goods belong to the Ark's commander, namely the slaves form Ulthuan. But without the boy, even the Ark would have problems defeating them, given that the Asur had taken an archmage with them. You've probably heard that one of those has destroyed an Ark once, haven't you? And even if our travel won't be accepted as his Hakseer, he can always do a real one later. And last but not least, Sameira, my dear, you seem to forget that your late mother was my younger half-sister, born and raised in the Black Ark of Naggor."

"Have you not heard what is happening between Naggor and Hag Graef in the last months?" The young woman threw a side-glance at Makareth. "A bloody feud, worse than ever before! And you think you can just walk up to Balneth Bale and present him – not only a commoner, but a commoner from Hag Graef! – as a worthy candidate for a title?"

The Dreadlord sighed. "You are young, my niece, and once you have reached sufficient wisdom – in the quest for which your friend Sorceress Vestara is surely a wonderful guide – you will understand that politics are less… fixed, and often more personal that it might appear at first. I have been in the Witchguard for a long time, and the Lord of Naggor knows of my loyalty and will certainly trust my decision."

"Your loyalty? My poor cousin surely can tell a tale of your loyalty." The lady frowned. "Oh wait… He can't. You've killed him for just a suspicion! I wonder how long it will take till you torture Hadranir to death, for he is next in line as your successor!"

Lykaon leaned closer to the young woman. His next words were half-whispered, in that purring, dark tone he always took on to sweep away any resistance of the other's will, and only through reading his lips Makareth was able to understand what he was saying. "I hope not, Sameira. I am still young enough to sire children, and I will have a heir to succeed me before I leave for the Dark Mother's halls. Maybe you could help me with this task..."

Hadranir was talking to Laggoran and didn't hear the last words of the lord, and Makareth was thankful for that – the last thing they needed now was a conflict, as the lady of the house seemed already skeptical considering their being here.

Vestara, whose face hadn't changed the expression of calm condescension during the conversation, nodded to Makareth. "Why are you still standing, son?"

The young Druchii felt heat rising in his cheeks. Once again, they were treating him either as a child or as if he wasn't even there. Reluctantly, he sat down next to Hadranir. A Druchii girl – judging from her simply tailored but well-made purple silken gown not a slave, but rather a member of Sameira's household – appeared out of nowhere and leaned over him and Hadranir to pour wine into their goblets. Her eyes were on Hadranir, even while she filled Makareth' cup.

Hadranir was the lord's heir, Makareth thought. That is why the lord bound the beautiful Druchii to himself, treated him in a way that made Hadranir dependant on him. It was not simply the closeness between them. It was a means of control, a means to ensure that the nephew didn't try to get Lykaon out of the way too early. Hadranir must be quite a desired bachelor, then; Lykaon seemed to be rich, and he had at least some influence. Was Makareth just another tool in Lykaon's scheme? To take another young man into his household, into his own clan, would mean creating another rival for Hadranir – and keep the beautiful Druchii distracted from a possible treason.

The subject changed to the feud between Hag Graef and Naggor once again, and Makareth had trouble following them, and so he resorted to drinking, something he was now quite good at, having had Laggoran as his mentor.

There seemed to be a problem that the famous Darkblade was involved into, and from what he understood they couldn't return to Hag Graef in the next time, despite the fact that Lykaon had originally planned to pay a couple of diplomatic visits to some of his allies there on his way back. They would go by ship to Naggorond, sailing along the northern coast of the Sea of Chill and the Sea of Malice, and then directly to Naggor from there.

Laggoran stood up at this point, saying he wished to talk to the Drannach's mate and his cousin. It would make sense to go with the Drannach and let her sail south to Clar Karond after she brought them to Naggorond.

He didn't return till after midnight. Makareth was quite drunk by then. The feast was still going on, but Hadranir had already left by then, having whispered something into Lykaon's ear. Vestara has excused herself as well. As Laggoran entered the hall, Lykaon rose and, bowing his head briefly to his niece, explained that it was time for him to rest. His hand brushed Makareth shoulder as he passed him, and the young Druchii also followed, after thanking the Lady for the hospitality.

Sameira had smiled at him when he spoke, and he was surprised by that. Maybe she had had too much wine and forgotten her opinion about commoners.

Lykaon ordered Makareth to come to his chambers. The young Druchii helped the lord to take off the armor, and put it onto a wooden stand.

The lord reclined on the bed in his robes, his eyes not a bit weary. "Now go to your room and wait for my signal. There will be another meeting tonight; something you will enjoy greatly. Put away your clothing, also your weapons… and comb your hair."

Makareth looked away, embarrassed so much that he didn't think about the strange instructions. He had not used a comb for days. Being on a ship had rid him of all vanity. He was so used to not washing himself for months. Sleeping in a heap of blankets and furs that smelled like alcohol and Laggoran's and his own sweat so strongly that on those rare evenings when he had washed himself at least partly he thought he would throw up from the stench, added to the effect; and having a whole bunch of even dirtier corsairs around, and even worse, human slaves, whose pungent smell reminded him of goats and pigs, did the rest. Why even try to look decent if you stink like a nauglir? After arriving at Karond Kar, he had bathed, of course, glad to get rid of the dirt; but getting rid of the bad habits that he took on during the last year would probably need more time.

In his room, he sat on his bed. His head was spinning, and he felt a familiar nausea from consumption of too much wine. His fingers had difficulties with his belt and the cords closing the khaitan in the front, and after he finally managed to take it off all his clothes, he laid back, exhausted, and instantly fell asleep.


	9. 9 - The Dark Ritual

**PART IX: The Dark Ritual**

_or: Second Glimpse of the Otherworld_

Well-known strong hands were on his shoulders, shaking him awake. He opened his eyes, expecting to see Laggoran's grinning face, but looked at a mask. The mask was made of skin, flayed from an elf's face and dried, painted with intricate ornaments, and covering the upper half of Laggoran's face, the corsair's dark eyes gleaming through the dead eyeholes.

Makareth suppressed a scream. "W-what is that?"

"Get up! It is time." The voice of the broad-shouldered Druchii was cold, and Makareth remembered that Laggoran was angry at him.

He scrambled onto his feet and took the fine purple robe from the corsair's hands, of delicate silk and open in the front, quickly putting it on. Frantically, he looked at the dressing table that stood at one of the room's walls, searching for a comb, and saw that Hadranir was in the room as well, dressed in a similar robe as him and Laggoran, his face, too, obscured by a half-mask.

Hadranir held out an ivory comb to him. Makareth pulled it through his long hair repeatedly, swearing under his breath because his tangled strands didn't obey. His pained sounds made Hadranir laugh, and the tall Druchii walked up to him, took the comb out of his hands and brushed his hair with careful but quick efficiency. When he was done, he went over to the dressing table and returned with a similar mask for Makareth.

Makareth looked into the silver mirror above the dressing table, holding the mask in his hands. He had last looked at himself in a mirror more than a year ago, in Hag Graef, when trying out some of the color pastes of his father's production to see if they look good on Druchii skin; and now, he hardly recognized himself. His face has lost most of its former youthful softness, its aquiline features, now accentuated by dark eye-shadows of fatigue and too much wine instead of face paint, and the black hair, lacking its former gloss, hung down straight and made his narrow face look even thinner. His body, though still lithe, had gained definition through the constant training; his shoulders were broader now than he remembered, the limbs more muscled; the scars from the fights, the prominent one on the arm and many faint ones from lesser injuries, were adorning his pale, yellowish-tinted skin in reddish lines. The tatoo of the three coiling dragons shone black through the transparent fabric on his shoulder. At once it struck him that he was probably handsome in the eyes of the others; the thought was funny and astonishing at the same time. He saw the full lips of his reflection curl in a sly, wolfish grin, and wondered where he learned to smile this way. Then it occurred to him that he had never smiled at his reflection back in Hag Graef, and that this expression was simply unknown to him.

He put on the mask, and his face became that of a stranger completely. A creature from a fable or from a nightmare.

"Where are we going?" The young Druchii held the robe together in front of him with his hands, shivering in the cold air. They walked down the corridor, down the stairs and into the stone-walled cellar of the main tower, passing cases with wine kegs and glass bottles of spitrits, and the other two didn't answer. Hadranir put a finger to his lips, asking for silence wordlessly.

In one of the rooms of the cellar, Hadranir and Laggoran pushed aside a case, and a hidden door came into sight.

Makareth' eyes went wide. "Does Sameira know…"

Laggoran glared at him through the eye-slits of the mask, and Makareth shut up.

The long dark corridor sloped down gently. Finally, they entered a fire-lit room, almost as big as the dining hall in Sameira's house.

Makareth looked around. The room seemed cut from stone but had a floor covered with wooden planks, warmer and more agreeable under his bare feet than the icy stone stairs had been. Braziers with hissing fires were all around the room, and incense smoke rose from them. Across the walls, a dozen of human slaves was chained, their arms above their heads, feet on tip-toe, hardly reaching the floor – they wore no masks, and the young Druchii recognized the handmaidens of the Bretonnian noble and some of the more attractive female humans that they had captured. In the middle of the room was a round table made entirely of black, shimmering stone. Runic ornaments, painted with softly glowing magical ink, covered it. Next to the table, two more slaves were seated on the floor, arms and legs bound. Contrary to the writhing and whimpering humans at the walls these two seemed under an influence of drugs, their faces in an expression of silent bliss, their eyes closed. They were both naked, except for abundant jewelry of gold and copper – anklets and bracelets, rings pierced through their earlobes and the skin of their stomachs and chests – and drawn symbols on their skin, in red and violet. One of the two was the female human noble, washed and rid of all body hair, her face beautifully painted, and the other, to Makareth' surprise, the tall Asur with the silver-dyed hair, the prince from Cothique that they had defeated.

The Druchii assembled in the room were all wearing similar robes and masks like Makareth, Laggoran and Hadranir. Only two were dressed slightly differently, their robes being embroidered with golden thread in runes that reminded of those on the altar.

One of those two was a tall woman with flowing black hair and a thin golden diadem on her head, her mask adorned with beads and little golden scales. Her skin was immaculate; the marble whiteness of it almost shimmered in the darkness. The purple robe streamed around her curvy shape like smoke. She had the ample breasts and wide hips that reminded of old depictions of Ereth Kial, the Dark Mother, but her waist was tiny and adorned with a golden chain belt that Makareth suspected was actually a necklace. She stood on her toes, slowly swaying back and forth, giving off an air of impatience. The pose made her long, smooth limbs look even longer.

The other was a man. Makareth didn't need to guess who it was. The towering height of the figure, the slender yet strong build, thousands of scars, the graceful and impressive posture, the long, openly worn black hair woven with silver-gray strands, the shark smile and the green fire of the eyes were all features he knew by heart. It had to be Lykaon.

Makareth looked at them in awe – they were so beautiful, so powerful, so archetypical. A Druchii man and a Druchii woman from ancient legends, from the time before the Fall of Nagarythe. No, not even mortal Druchii – they resembled Ereth Kial and her consort... Her consort... What was he called? Makareth searched for a name of that other deity and couldn't recall it. He shook his head. Was the incense clouding his mind already? Where did he get the idea that the Dark Mother had a consort at all? It was not usually mentioned in legends.

The door to the corridor closed behind them, and the whispering among the Druchii ceased at once. The two figures in the embroidered robes began moving. Fascinated, Makareth watched the lord pour a goblet of wine onto the altar, chanting in a low voice, while the woman standing on the opposite side of the round table raised her arms and joined in, singing in a crystal-clear voice that echoed in the hall as if it was empty.

The chant, a strangely enticing melody at first, even more unusual because it was sung by two Druchii voices – Makareth has heard Asur slaves sing for their masters, but Dark Elves themselves rarely sang – became a dissonant crescendo and then broke. Steam rose from the altar in a purple cloud, and some of the participants threw more incense into the braziers. The room began to fill with aromatic smoke. It made Makareth' head light and his mouth, already dry from having drunk too much at the feast, even drier.

He saw the goblet that Lykaon had held in his hands just a moment ago going around, filled with liquid again, and when it finally was his turn, he grabbed it thirstily and drank. The liquid was again that bitter and spicy mixture that he had drank with Lykaon on the Black Ark the evening after he had awoken after his injury. It quenched his thirst after just one big gulp but left him yearning for more, and he emptied the cup before giving it to his neighbor. A Druchii in a purple robe stepped up from behind them and filled the cup again from a big glass bottle.

His attention returned to Lykaon and the woman, who had now climbed onto the altar and embraced in silence, their hands moving over the other's body in ritualized gestures, as if they were a reflection of each other. Then the lord leaned back, and the Druchii female crawled on top of him, guiding his hands onto her waist and back, and arched her upper body, her arms once again raised, letting out a shrill, high cry.

As if a spell was broken, the other dark elves now began speaking and moving again, some of them moving to the slaves chained to the walls, the others walking to the braziers to breath in the incense smoke.

Cool slender fingers wove into his, and Makareth looked up to see Hadranir smiling at him. He wanted to ask the beautiful Druchii what it was all about, but his tongue, still heavy from the wine earlier and the toxic beverage they drank here, didn't obey. Hadranir lead him to one of the chained humans. A woman, masked and robed like all others, standing in front of the slave, turned around and held out her hands. Makareth saw a whip in her right hand, and a dagger in her left.

Automatically, without thinking, he took the dagger.

The human female in front of him was the one who had tried to flee from Hadranir back in the castle. Her reddish brown hair was slick from sweet-smelling oils, and her skin pink from the heat radiating from the braziers. Her hands, chained above her head at shoulder width, were curled into fists, and she trembled, standing on her toes, stretched by the uncomfortable position.

Makareth suddenly knew what he had to do. Dreamily, he put the dagger between her collarbones, causing her to sob in panic – _the assassins clavicles had been so birdlike under Hadranir's sword_ – and traced a faint red line, just cutting the upper layer of the skin, just a little bit of pain – _the Druchii-like human boy at the Flesh House had bled in such a beautiful colour_ – between her breasts and down her stomach and then turning to the left and down her leg – _Vestara's thighs were living marble_ – and then, kneeling down, he drove the dagger _– the dancing Asur on the table, her ocean eyes empty_ – between the bones of her foot, nailing it to the wooden floor.

Her scream, both from the pain piercing her foot and in her arms that were now even more stretched, the metal cuffs around her wrists tearing the tender skin to shreds, made him shake in pleasure, and with unbelieving eyes he looked down on himself, realizing that he was almost painfully aroused, without having noticed it at first. He gripped the human girl's hips, and pulled himself up, licking the blood trail he had left on her skin. In his clouded mind and in his burning flesh, he felt the need to copulate. He wrapped the humans shaking free leg around his waist, but hands pulled him away from the slave, sharp nails and velvet skin, and the woman who had given him the dagger pushed him to the ground, lying on top of him and taking him in, her hips moving in wide circles. He opened his mouth to cry out his lust, but a masked face with blazing purple eyes obscured his view, and he felt Hadranir's filed teeth grazing his lips, the split tongue reaching in and forcing his into a dance. Makareth' hands shot up, and he drove his fingers into the braided mane of the other Druchii, holding his head, returning the kiss that tasted like wine and bitter drug. The female Dark Elf over him clawed at his torso in her ecstatic ride, leaving hot traces of broken skin under her nails. Her thighs were muscular and hard like silversteel, but inside her, it was soft, and when he felt her contracting, he wanted to come too, desperately, his sensations hardly bearable, but he didn't, due to the wine or to the drug or to Hadranir distracting him. And then she was up and away, leaving him in yearning.

"No!" He let go of Hadranir's hair, breaking the long kiss and pushing himself up, looking for the Druchii female that just left him. The braziers' fire seemed to have become less bright, the room sunk into a darkness that hadn't been there a moment ago. Where the human slave had hung on the chains, only bloody strips of skin and a couple of freshly gnawed bones were lying on the floor, red liquid pooling around them. It seemed as if wild dogs had attacked the human; but Makareth knew better what really happened to her. They had devoured her, like he and the others did to the assassin in the underway.

He looked back, searching for Hadranir, but the latter was gone as well. The robed and masked figures gathered around the altar in the middle; the slaves that had been chained to the walls were now disfigured corpses or gone completely.

He rose to his feet somewhat sobered, but still shakily, and maneuvered himself through the crowd and closer to the altar, curious to see what was happening there.

The female human noble was held by dozens of hands onto the altar, arms and legs stretched from her body. Still under the influence of the drug given to her, she looked at the ceiling, slightly confused. The Druchii woman in the embroidered robe stood to her side, close to the round altar table; she held a long, gleaming object in her hand that Makareth at first thought to be a sword. Looking more closely, he realized that it was in fact a saw.

The delirium of the human quickly came to an end when the Dark Elf started to saw her apart along the middle of her body, starting at the crotch and continuing towards her neck. She screamed, but the crowd around the altar began chanting, the same words and melody that Lykaon and the gold-masked woman had sung at the beginning of this strange ritual. From somewhere in the corner of the room, he heard a drum, its beat slow and eerie, like a heart of something ancient and evil. Makareth felt dangerous energies gathering, creeping hungrily through the eyes and mouths of the chanting Druchii. His excitement was replaced by an ill feeling, a mixture of fear and nausea.

He felt the need to flee, and turned away to dive into the crowd, but bumped into a Dark Elf male who caught the younger Druchii's wrists and forcefully turned him back around to face the scene on the altar. "Watch!" whispered Lykaon's purring voice at his ear. Makareth smelled the enchanting perfume that so often surrounded the Dreadlord, and his will crumbled. Meekly, he leaned his head back on Lykaon's shoulder and continued to watch the horrid spectacle.

By the time the saw reached her neck, the woman was already long since dead. The Druchii female had changed the saws that had become blunt several times during the ordeal; now she took a smaller, finer one and continued to cut the human's head into two parts, through the middle of the mouth, nose and between the eyes. When she was finished, the hands holding the corpse pulled both halves of it down from the altar.

Makareth felt Lykaon's arm brush his shoulder as the taller Druchii passed him and took the place of the Druchii female, taking the saw from her hands. The lord looked up, and his dark lips formed words, directed at Makareth: "Help me with this."

In trance, the young Druchii stepped to the altar, his hands among dozens of others now pinning the silver-haired Asur prince to the bloody surface, and this time he watched the screaming victim being sawn apart without any emotional remorse. His mind was drifting somewhere in a mist of drugged indifference, only returning to reality briefly when malicious joy to see a High Elf suffer flamed up at an especially shrill scream, and the little sober voice in his head that told him that something was going wrong here was far away and couldn't get through to him anymore.

The corpse lying on the altar now was a strange sight. The right half was female, and human, and the left half was male and elf. Of course, it didn't move, but alone the view made Makareth choke. This sculpture made from two dead bodies was somehow familiar, but again he felt at loss, not knowing what exactly it reminded him of. What was its name? He knew there was a name.

All around him, the braziers shone their warm light again, and masked Druchii were entangled in feverish passion, their robes thrown away and soaking with blood that was all over the floor.

He looked back at the altar and at once he knew – the surreal figure on the altar was a three-dimensional version of the picture that Hadranir had been drawing in the tower of the Black Ark.

Makareth felt sickness rising in his stomach, and he made careful steps towards the door. It was locked, and he slumped against it, sliding to the floor.

He saw Hadranir among the other Druchii, his back arched in ecstasy, his hips beating a steady rhythm between the white legs of a masked woman, hands and lips of other elves moving over his slender, beautiful body, his braids whipping through the air when an especially pleasurable touch, bite or pinch made him throw back his head. Another masked Dark Elf – Makareth thought to recognize Laggoran – poured wine out over Hadranir, directly from a keg, and the beautiful Druchii opened his mouth, greedily, shivering with delight at the taste of the drops that fell onto his split tongue, though most of the liquid streamed down his body and was licked from his skin by the others around him.

Makareth understood why Hadranir had been so impatient, so full of joyful anticipation after their successful raid. Whatever happened here had given him back the ability to feel, to taste, to smell, at least for a time. Magic was at work here, unholy but powerful magic.

He thought he had caught a glimpse of Lykaon too, but the drug he had drank now worked fully, and his eyes were already betraying him. He saw ghostly shapes moving in the corner of his eye, colors painted over the dark walls in hypnotic patterns. He was lost, he thought, and maybe he would never be allowed to leave this room again.

A woman suddenly left the living tapestry of the entwined bodies and slowly walked towards Makareth. A smile was on her full lips, and her eyes in the eye-holes of the beaded and golden scaled skin mask were darker than the night. She sat down at his side, and her hand touched his bare stomach, then sliding down and caressing him in steady, gentle movements, the other arm wound around his waist. "One day, you will learn to embrace the power of Atharti; this is just the beginning. Stop thinking now!"

Her naked body leaning against him was warm and strangely familiar, her voice was kind and soothing, and he sighed, defeated, and closed his eyes. Just a few moments later, her hands, patient and skilled, finally granted him the release he had been denied earlier. Exhausted, he drifted off to dark and bittersweet dreams, indifferent to whatever the future would hold for him.


	10. 10 - Return to Clar Karond

**PART X: Return to Clar Karond**

_or: One Enemy Less_

The next morning was bleak, and cold. Makareth woke up in his bed in Sameira's house alone, naked and covered with dried blood and other substances, and he felt miserable. His whole body hurt, as if he had been in a fight. He threw on a robe, slipped into his boots and walked over to the room next to his, where he knew Ruathac stayed.

The door opened the instant he was standing in front of it, and he looked onto a bolt ready to be shot from the crossbow, and then into the Shade's face.

Ruathac let his hand sink. "You can come in." He turned and walked over to the bed, sitting on it cross-legged, put down his weapon and picked up his pipe. "What haunts you?"

Makareth sat on a chair at the window and looked out. "I want to ask you something."

"I can imagine what it is." The icy eyes of the Shade watched him warily.

"The lord… His belief… I mean…" Makareth struggled to find the right words.

"You are worried that you have been dragged into something dangerous, aren't you?" Ruathac breathed out a ring of smoke.

"Yes. What I have witnessed, was strange. I am afraid that it has… That it is…"

"Chaos." Ruathac said. "You are afraid that you have encountered Chaos."

The word shot into Makareth mind, and he felt something break, springing into thousands of shards, sharp and cold like frozen glass. Suddenly, he felt the need to rage, to scream, to hit his head against a wall, understanding that he was indeed lost, that he had failed.

Ruathac shook his head. "I see you have seen through that illusion that even Hadranir and Laggoran are fallen victim too. You are right, it is not Atharti whom they worship. The one whom Lykaon worships is by far more powerful and by far more evil. But calm yourself – it is not how you imagine it to be. You are too naive, thinking that you were free from it before. Even the magic the Sorceresses weave is already tainted. If you ask the unworthy Asur, then even great Khaine is already a dark power close to those we all fear. All our gods are unholy to the Asur; and their gods are wrong in the eyes of the human savages in the Old World. There is no black and white."

Makareth looked up. The Shade was smoking calmly, unmoved by Makareth' confusion. The young Druchii cleared his throat. "Ruathac, why are you following the lord? You are a Shade from the Blackspine mountains; what made you come here and travel through cities and by ship?"

"I owe Lykaon the life of my family." A faint smile lighted the chiseled features of the Shade, and Makareth was surprised to see a glimpse of emotion in the gray eyes. "My wife, my two sons, my daughter. And my whole clan. Lykaon the Enchanter rescued them from a beastmen army long ago. I was the son of the Urhan, the clan leader. My father had ruled my people with an iron hand, and refused any help from outsiders. But he fell that winter, and I succeeded him, though I was young back then. I didn't want to waste them all out of foolish pride. We had fought against the beastmen in the mountains for four long winters, and we killed hundreds, but they kept gathering, more and more of them, three new men for every one we killed, until over two thirds of our warriors were slain by them. Then Lykaon appeared riding on a winged monster, and with the help of his magic we were able to defeat the enemy."

"A winged monster? Do you mean a dragon?" The young Druchii's eyes shone with delight.

"No, one of those smaller flying beasts that Naggor's Witchguard rides. I think they summon them – but one never knows with the sorcerers."

"And you went with him out of thankfulness?" Makareth raised his brows.

"No. In my despair, I plead him to help us, offering to serve him in return. Only then did he accept to fight on our side."

"But why was he there in the first place, far from Naggor? And why did he want to take you with him at all?" The young Druchii forgot about his uneasy thoughts, trembling with curiosity.

"Don't forget that he was a member of the Witchguard. Maybe he was allowed to take a look into the Orb of Malkin, that artifact that Balneth Bale uses to foretell the future, and knows more about what is to come than we do? I don't know what his plans are; I am content to serve him till the time we negotiated is up. One day, I will go back to the Blackspines, return home to my wife, and lead my clan again. This thought always keeps my will strong and my mind sheltered against the lure of Lykaon's dark temptations. I might serve Lykaon – but I will not serve his cult or its dark master. I would prefer you not to talk about what you found out with others, though – as soon as you bring Lykaon in danger, I will be the first one to shoot a bolt through your heart." The Shade tilted his head. "You should go wash yourself. You stink like a Flesh House."

Makareth stood up and strode for the door. His head was clear again, and he thought that he should take an example in Ruathac.

The Shade spoke again before he could leave, speaking words that Makareth would never forget: "As long as you make your own decisions, they won't have any power over you."

Once he was clean and dressed again half an hour later, Makareth decided to see what the lord and the other liegemen were up to.

The door to Hadranir's room was not locked, and he opened it and looked inside. The beautiful Druchii was lying on his bed on his back, sleeping deeply, barely covered by a light blanket, in a similarly dirty state as Makareth was half an hour ago. To Makareth' surprise – or maybe not so much a surprise – he also saw Laggoran in Hadranir's bed. He was lying with his head towards the foot of the bed, his legs bent because the headboard was in their way. The corsair's head rested on Hadranir's thigh, and his arm was wound around the other's hip.

Out of some reason, Makareth felt a sting of jealousy, and angry with himself, he closed the door and went further down the corridor till he reached Lykaon's room. The lord's door was closed and locked, and so the young Druchii returned to his chambers and looked out of the window for the next hours, bored.

Around midday, Lykaon entered his room, his green eyes burning with anger. "Get your things together. We leave now."

"Now, my lord?" Makareth jumped up. "Weren't you planning to stay here for a couple of days?"

"I will explain it to you on the ship. Laggoran is already at the docks. Hurry!" With these words, Lykaon rushed out of the door.

Laggoran's cousin from the Ark didn't need to come with them after all – Laggoran would bring the Drannach back to Adragil himself. Makareth stood at the railing once again. He enjoyed the wind that tore at his hair and cooled his face, happy that something was happening again. He didn't know yet why Lykaon had been so discontent, but whatever it was, Makareth hoped it would involve fighting. After last night's confusing experience he needed the purifying rage that rose in his heart when he had a real opponent, someone to kill, instead of shadowy dreams and fears of losing himself.

An excited voice caught his attention. Hadranir was standing at the stairs leading down to the cabins and the bilge, looking up to Lykaon who had already stepped onto the planks of the deck.

"Lord, this is a rushed decision! It will only raise suspicion in your enemies!" The beautiful Druchii's tone was almost pleading.

"How dare you! Don't question my deeds!" Lykaon's hit his nephew across the cheek with the back of his hand, and Hadranir stepped back, his purple eyes opening wide in surprise. "And don't try to fool me. It is the fact that you cannot visit the Flesh House in the next three days, not your fear for my security, that worries you." The lord turned away and walked towards Makareth.

Hadranir followed him and held him back by the shoulder. "Uncle, wait! Please at least let me buy a slave to take with us! We are not that far from the harbor yet…"

Lykaon's green eyes narrowed, and Makareth feared for Hadranir's life at once. "Do you want me to throw you into the waves? Maybe the sea maidens will provide you with the pleasure you seek so desperately." He waited for Hadranir to take his hand away, and when the other elf didn't, he turned to him and pushed him away. "Do you really want to die?"

Hadranir flew to the ground, landing hard on the wooden planks. He stood up slowly, his face now taking on an expression that Makareth wasn't able to interpret, something empty and hollow and bitter, a mixture of resignation and yearning. "Maybe… It would certainly be an interesting experience."

"Go and ask Laggoran to take care of you. You disgust me." The Dreadlord watched Hadranir walk down the steps and then looked back at Makareth. "I hope you never become like him."

The young Druchii swallowed. "I… I don't understand what my lord wants to say."

Lykaon laughed. "Never mind. I promised you to explain why we had to leave already; and it is better for you to know that you should be careful in the next time."

Makareth nodded, waiting for the lord to continue.

"I had a visitor this morning. A young man from one of the Beastmasters' Towers, loyal to our cause… Loyal to me, more precisely… Told me that one of the high-ranked Beastmasters has been meeting with Adragil, Laggoran's untrustworthy brother, lately, and words of Hag Graef and the Temple of Khaine fell between them. The man's is called Dolus Hydrafang, and it seems he is not simply bought by my enemies. He has a rather personal reason to get me out of the way."

"Personal reason?" The young Druchii's breath quickened. This sounded like a conflict. And a conflict would mean spilling of blood.

"Sameira. Where do you think does she have the young hydra from?" Lykaon put his hands on the railing and looked upon the gray waves of the Sea of Chill. "A gift from her most passionate suitor."

Makareth stared at the lord. "But where is the problem with that?"

"The problem?" The lord grinned. "His problem is that I plan to marry her. And Sameira… well, she has a heart as cold as a glacier of the Blackspines. A worthy daughter of my late sister. She doesn't say yes, and she doesn't say no. She is amused by his attempts to win her attention, but she is a clever young woman, and she knows that I am not only more wealthy and influential, but also much more dangerous than him."

"But why do we flee then?"

"Flee? We don't flee. We go to Clar Karond to take care of Adragil. He seems to be the connection between Dolus and the Temple, and if we eliminate him, the Beastmaster will have to find a new ally against me; and this will give me enough time to make sure that he will not disturb my plans anymore."

They sailed through the Sea of Malice and then the river, upstream till they reached the shipyards of Laggoran's clan. The Drannach rocked on the waves between two newly build, unmarred black ships, a hydradhip and a skiff, but the was no sight of the Thorned – the seadragon probably slept under the waves deep below.

The moment the landing bridge connected the rump of the skiff to the docks, the corsair captain set off towards the main building of the estate.

Makareth had to run to keep up with Laggoran as the corsair rushed up the stairs into Adragil's chambers. The guards at the doors had tried to deny them the entrance, and argued that even though Laggoran belonged to the family, they had orders to not let him in. But after the corsair captain had drawn his blade and beheaded one of them in a split second, bellowing that he will make the rest of them pay for their insolence the moment he got his birth right back from the usurper, they gave up and fell to their knees, smelling the wind change.

There were two more guards in the corridor, but before they could attack, Laggoran threw a handful of golden coins onto the floor and hissed that he would reward them for their silence tomorrow, when he was head of the family again. The guards understood quickly and hurried to collect the gold.

Laggoran threw himself against the locked door, and lifted it off its hinges with the first hit. Inside, the room was darkened by curtains, only one candle on the bed table shining its yellow light. Makareth, who followed Laggoran into the room, saw the broad-shouldered Druchii running up to the broad bed. Two figures, limbs entangled, were on it, reacting too slow in their astonishment to defend themselves against the fury of the corsair captain, and before Makareth could do anything, Laggoran was on the bed above his brother's tattooed back, raised his sword and drew it down in a vertical, piercing movement. The sword went through Adragil's heart, through the body of his lover and then mattress, pinning the two Druchii together in their last embrace. Laggoran's brother was dead within seconds; but the female, deadly wounded and helpless under the weight of her lover's corpse, screamed in panic.

Just a moment later, Makareth realized that she was not simply crying from pain and fear. She was shouting words of power, and a magical arrow made of glowing fire left her hand, hitting Laggoran with the force of combined energy of the eight winds, and the corsair, thrown back, stumbled over his own feet and crashed to the floor.

With a cry of anger, Makareth took the few steps to the bed and let his own sword fall onto the head of the woman, making her shut up forever.

He knelt beside Laggoran, feeling his pulse, and found the other Druchii breathing, his heart beat steady. The ringing in Makareth ears, caused by the terrible sound the woman had made, subsided, and he heard steps approaching. Lykaon, followed by Hadranir, came into room.

Lykaon walked over to the bed and looked at the dead couple. He frowned. "It seems that Adragil has more friends than we had suspected. Lady Akarin and him had more than just a business relationship." He turned his head to the young Druchii. "Though she is barely recognizable after having met your sword, Makareth."

Makareth' felt a chill going down his spine. He didn't understand what he had done wrong, but the lord sounded… discontent. "I had to, milord. Laggoran had wounded her deadly, and she cast a spell that knocked him out. If I hadn't reacted…"

"You did well. I am more worried about the fact that Adragil had an ally in the Convent than about her death. Akarin has broken the rules of the Convent anyway, giving herself to a man like that. I will send a herald to Supreme Sorceress Vestara and ask her to inform the Witchking that she had to order an execution a fallen Sorceress; Vestara is of higher rank, and she is loved among the sisters of the Convent. Much loved, so to say – and it is still an underestimation. She is one of the favorites of the Witchking's mother." The Dreadlord grinned. "But it could become more difficult for her now. If Akarin knew of Adragil's plans and has already brought other Sorceresses onto their side, then Vestara might have to go back to Ghrond and reestablish her position there."

Laggoran moaned groggily as Hadranir helped him get up. "Damn witch."

Ruathac slid into the room soundlessly, his crossbow in his hand. "The guards got their reward."

Makareth looked out of the door and saw the two Druchii lying on the floor, dead over the golden coins that had bought them, bolts protruding from their backs.

Laggoran had quickly made clear to the rest of the household that he was now in charge again, and those who refused to swear allegiance to him were killed on the spot.

This evening, Makareth couldn't sleep. There had been yet another feast to celebrate Laggoran's return, but the wine and food didn't fill the void the young Druchii was feeling in his heart.

He knew that Laggoran would not come with them tomorrow. Despite the hot-tempered and violent nature of the corsair captain, Makareth had grown used to the older Druchii's presence. He had enjoyed the lessons in sword fighting and Reikspiel that Laggoran had given him, and he knew to appreciate the skilled and strong Druchii as a companion in battle. Secretly, he had also enjoyed the physical closeness – Laggoran had never really tried to seduce him, though making clear that he would not be opposed to such a liaison and joking about making Makareth his consort often – but they had, after all, slept in the same makeshift bed on the ship. He knew he would miss Laggoran's playful punches and the rare cold morning on the Drannach when he woke up in the corsair's arms, having sought his warmth unconsciously. When he heard Lykaon say that he released Laggoran from service and saw the corsair captain take off his golden hadrilkar and give it back to the Dreadlord, Makareth, for the first time, felt angry at the lord. But he stared into his goblet and stayed silent.


	11. 11 - Farewell

**PART XI: Farewell**

_or: The Loss of a Mentor_

He tossed from one side to another, and finally, tired of his bad mood, he stood up, took his sword and went out to the docks. The private docks of the House of Thorns – that was the name of Laggoran's family, so he had learned at the feast tonight – were almost empty safe for some guards. The work on the ships that they had seen at their arrival was finished, and now he knew that the Thorned was also there, the seadragon sleeping in the middle of riverbed, the citadel on its back faintly visible under the dark waters. Contrary to their first visit to these docks, there were no industriously working slaves or angry Beastmasters ordering them around now; and though Laggoran had spoken with one of his lower-ranking relatives about the next delivery of wood that was due in the next day, it seemingly had not arrived yet.

He strode through the darkness, leaving the estate and heading for the main docks of Clar Karond where those who didn't have the luxury to own a shipyard had to do their business. Here, the narrow streets and broader roads were full of people. More than one time, younger Druchii, almost children, had jostled him in a search for a purse or for jewelry, thinking him a rich noble that was foolish enough to walk the docks at night, and Makareth had to laugh at the fact that not long ago, he was such a poor thing himself. He didn't even hit them, just kept on walking. He hadn't taken any money with him, even though before the feast, Lykaon finally gave him his share of the loot from their journey to the old world. But even the gold, a bigger amount than he had ever held in his hands before, wasn't able to give him consolation in his bad mood. He had just put it in a bag and under his bed and almost forgotten about it.

Thinking about how much he had changed in the last year, he looked at the people passing him, absentminded. When he first had joined Lykaon, everything had been wondrous and exciting. Now the boredom of his childhood and youth had him in its grip again. Even more, it was worse than ever before. So many new sensations had come and gone, a whole collection of memories to indulge in – but now he didn't even bother dreaming about the past, relishing memories and bathing in them like he used to. Why should he? There was always another slave to enjoy or to torture, another taste of sweet or sour wine, another drug to cloud his mind, another fine meal to be forgotten shortly after. He wore the embroidered dwarven-leather khaitans of a dead noble, and his new armor was of shiny silversteel. He had a Cold One as his mount. And soon, if everything went well, he would finally also have that dead noble's title.

Nothing of it all filled the void. He needed more… More riches. More pleasures. More intense experiences.

The shocking realization made him stand still. What he felt now… It must be exactly what he had so despised in Hadranir. The crawling, cunning addiction that had eaten the beautiful Druchii's will was now attacking him. And he was almost defeated.

"Make your own decisions." Makareth muttered to himself under his breath. "Damn you, make your own decisions, fool." He tried to find something still whole and untouched by the terrible boredom in his mind… And then there it was.

The reason why had come here in the first place. The solution. The redemption.

He had come here because he hoped some petty robbers would try to attack him; that a drunkard would start a brawl; that something, something would happen that would finally make him feel the rush and excitement that he missed so painfully.

He had come here with the intention to fight.

At once clear-eyed, he watched and listened patiently. Two corsairs were standing close by, arguing about a bet; they kept a respectful distance to him, seemingly thinking him a noble. On board of one of the ships at the docks, a merchant was negotiating loudly with a captain who had just brought back a shipment of dream-inducing and stimulating substances from Lustria; they spoke about a deal that the tax collectors should not never learn of. A scarcely clad, spindly Druchii woman was trying to lure a drunken harbor guard into a dark passage between two warehouses, offering her body for a price less than that of an hour with a slave in a Flesh House. Makareth grinned – having grown up in the poor quarters, he knew that such an offer would usually lead to the loss of purse and head rather than to cheap caresses. A warehouse overseer, working overdue, lead a group of slaves carrying heavy wooden boxes out of the door, whipping them to walk faster, and disappeared with them in a narrow street leading towards the middle of the city. A group of Druchii in tattered clothing that were seemingly just sharing a wineskin and playing dice, sitting at the pier, suddenly jumped up and followed them.

Finally, thought Makareth. With light, almost dancing steps, he went after them. He caught up with them just in time. The robbers had stricken down three of the slaves and were now attacking the overseer with long, badly forged knives. One of them had already wounded the overseer, who had let his whip fall and drawn a sword. Blood run down from a deep cut in the man's thigh, but he didn't cry for help out of some reason.

"Khaine!" Makareth whispered the name of the Blood Handed God, and broke into a run till he reached the group. His blade cut through the spine of one of the robbers, sending him to the ground in front of the overseer's feet, and with the return strike, he hit a shoulder of another one.

One of the Druchii, a badly scarred man whose nose was missing, only scar tissue in the middle of his face, screamed. "A damn noble! Get him!"

The robbers attacked Makareth, almost forgetting the overseer and his remaining slaves. The one whose shoulder was now injured switched the knife into his left hand and lounged forwards, aiming for the young Druchii's arm. Another robber struck at Makareth' hip. Makareth parried the first blow easily, and while the opponent tried to regain his stance, kicked him in the groin, making him bend in half. The other's attack missed by an inch, too high to bite into the chain mail and the leather beneath it, and hit the side of the breastplate instead. The crude knife didn't get through the silversteel, leaving only a small scratch on the surface; the man, seeing that his knife was no match for Makareth' equipment, turned to run.

The overseer, seeing his chance to survive this fight, joined in again, plunged his sword into the back of the Druchii whom Makareth had kicked and pulled it out again, bloody.

Makareth laughed. The heat of excitement was back, rushing through his blood. He turned around quickly, parrying another attack of one of the robbers. It had been a maneuver – the attacker stopped his blow just before it met Makareth' sword and struck at his knee. The young Druchii reacted easily, having learned this same trick from Laggoran in one of those lessons on board of the Drannach, and swung his sword down in a half a circle, stopping the velocity of the strike. With a kick of his left leg, he met the face of the man who had to lean forward for the maneuver, and thought he heard the fragile bones of a Druchii jaw break; the opponent howled and tried to flee, but with the next strike, Makareth cut a deep wound into his stomach, and the man fell to the ground, trying to push his innards back into the hole in shock.

The overseer was still struggling with the last remaining robber, and the young Druchii rushed to his help, swinging his sword across the sinews on the legs under rugged pants. The robber fell, and the overseer stepped on his neck, breaking his spine.

Breathing heavily, Makareth looked at the warehouse worker. "Why didn't you call the guards? It was your luck I was in the mood to help you."

The overseer hesitated for a moment, but then he threw Makareth a grim look, picked up his whip again and walked over to the two remaining slaves, humping, blood running down his leg. "It is none of your business. I didn't ask you for help."

"Oh, it is very well my business now." The young Druchii grinned. "Could it be that you are planning some… illegal deal?"

"Don't interfere with my work!" The man was now growling, gripping the handle of the whip with one hand and the hilt of the sword with another.

"So, it is some illegal deal, then." Makareth nodded to one of the slaves. "Open the box."

The slave looked at him stupidly. He was either to frightened, or he didn't understand Druhir.

"No! I said it is none of your business!" The overseer stepped forwards, trying to look threatening, but his injured leg made his threat a joke.

"Then, why don't you call the guards? Maybe they can stop me." Makareth smiled amiably, altering his stance just a tiny bit, unnoticed by the other man, and then his sword lashed out and slit the overseer's throat.

His eyes bewildered, the overseer coughed and gurgled, and Makareth, standing still, the smile still on his lips, watched him slowly slump to the ground.

Then he turned to the slaves. "Now open it!" He said it in Reikspiel, and the human, astonished, seemed to understand him and moved, slowly and clumsily. He lifted the lid of the box.

Inside, Makareth saw a heap of rings; small, silversteel rings, like those used to make chain mail coats. His eyes narrowed. Why all the secrecy, only for some silversteel rings? Yes, the magical metal was expensive. But it was nothing illegal, nothing unusual.

He stepped closer and reached into the metal heap – and discovered that the rings were only a thin layer. As he swept them aside, he saw chunks of strange, greenishly glowing mineral. Warmth radiated from its surface, and he felt his skin tingling when his fingers brushed the stones. He had heard of this mineral.

Warpstone. Who could need a delivery of warpstone here in Clar Karond?

Makareth remembered that warpstone could be used to create artifacts or psychoactive, magical potions. Whoever the overseer was going to had to be a vauvalka – an illegal magic user. Otherwise the man wouldn't have been so secretive over it.

At this point, Makareth decided to take the risk and call the harbor guards.

He returned to Laggoran's family estate, humming to himself. He was a bit surprised to hear his own voice produce a melody, and he wondered where he got the tune from; but he felt so full of joy, so alive, that he didn't think about it further. The guards let him in without a word, and he strode to his chambers, looking forward to drinking a cup of wine and sleeping.

He opened the door and stopped humming at once. The fireplace which had been cold and dark when he left was now lighting the room in warm orange tones. Warily, he stepped inside and looked around.

Laggoran was sitting on Makareth' bed, a goblet in his hand, a wine keg on the floor in front of him.

Makareth relaxed. For a moment, he had been afraid, though he didn't know of what – what kind of assassin would light a fireplace? He scolded himself for being paranoid and smiled at the corsair captain.

"Come, drink with me." Laggoran gave him the goblet. He acknowledged the blood on the young man's clothing and laughed. "Have you been slaughtering the people of the city? Or did you accompany Hadranir to the Flesh House?" The conflict that had stood between them during the last days was gone; the fact that the Thorned belonged to him again seemed to have appeased Laggoran.

Makareth tugged on the belts of his armor, and to his surprise, Laggoran stood up and helped him take it off. Carefully, Makareth put the armor on the wooden stand. Tomorrow morning, he would have to clean it. Wrong, he thought, smiling to himself, he should ask for a slave who would do it – they were in the middle of civilization again.

"No. I just went to the docks. I needed some fresh air." The young Druchii sat down on the bed.

Laggoran sat next to him and gave him the goblet he was holding in his hand previously. There was still some wine in it.

The taste delighted Makareth; it was a very sweet, unfamiliar beverage. "Where is this from?"

"Ulthuan. Vestara had given me some; from the loot they got off the Cothique fleet." The corsair captain watched the young Druchii drink. His dark eyes were gleaming in the unsteady light of the fireplace. "Good, isn't it?"

Makareth nodded and held out the goblet. Laggoran poured him some more.

"You could have more of it after the next raid. I plan to pay a visit to the weakling Asur on their homeland very soon. I have already found a new Sorceress to accompany me on the Thorned – one of Vestara's apprentices." The corsair captain looked at Makareth inquisitively. "How about it? You could come with me; I would make you my Chief Mate."

Makareth almost choked on the wine. "What?" He coughed.

"Of course, I am not as influential here as Lykaon is in Naggor, and I cannot simply ask the three leaders of Clar Karond to grant you a title… But at my side, you can become rich and famous through the raids. Sooner or later, after a decade or two, you will earn your title this way too – if you survive." Laggoran leaned in closer, and his dark eyes met Makareth'. "And I swear by the Cytharai, I will make sure you survive."

The young Druchii smelled the alcohol in the corsair captain's breath. His mind was reeling. He had felt disheartened at the thought that Laggoran wouldn't go with them, he remembered. But after the fight, the sadness and emptiness had disappeared. When he thought about it now, his first reaction seemed childish and weak.

He turned his face away, looking into the flames. "I don't think Lykaon would let me go." His own voice sounded unfamiliar, and a part of him wanted to agree, to say, yes, yes! I will stay with you, I want to become a corsair, I want to see more of this huge world, I want to continue learning from you. But he knew that by agreeing, he would break his loyalty to Lykaon – the one who had pulled him out of the gutter in the first place, who had given him the chance to become what he truly always dreamed of.

"No? Why not?" Laggoran took the goblet from his hand and poured more wine into it. He drank a deep gulp and then gave it back to Makareth. "You are of no big importance to him. You are an excellent fighter, so what? There are others like you. I am a better warrior than you, too, and he had no remorse letting me go. I will ask Lykaon to leave you with me. He needs my ships for his slave hunts. By Morai-Heg, he owes it to me!" Laggoran's voice had turned into a dark growl at these last words.

Makareth was both amused and annoyed. Weakness, he thought. I am his weakness. "I am of no big importance to you, neither." Another sip of wine melted into dreamlike sweetness on his tongue. "The problem is, Laggoran, that you don't just want a Chief Mate. A mate, yes, but in a different sense."

The corsair's jaw dropped. "I never said…"

"Oh, you did. You were joking about it for months. Now if I was a woman, I would agree instantly. You could marry me, and then I'd automatically become a noble like you." He grinned, seeing Laggoran's astonished expression. "But I am not a woman, and this way to a title is not an option. I don't fancy men all that much, neither; at least not as much as you do. You would get bored with me just accompanying you, you would try to… you know, shake me out of my pants again…and then kick in your face it is."

Laggoran laid back and put his arms behind his head. "I know." He laughed quietly. "Sadly, I have to confess you are right about my intentions. But I am also quite sure that you are not all that honest to me about this matter." He winked. "Think about it. I might not make this offer again."

The younger Druchii shook his head.

"Maybe you will see one day that your place is on the Thorned with me." The corsair captain stood up from the bed and raised the goblet. "I drink to this!"

"Maybe."

Laggoran suddenly let the cup fall, wine spilling over the floor. With one jump, he was over Makareth, pinning him to the bed, and his fingers were ripping the younger Druchii's robes, digging into his skin. All friendliness had gone from the corsair's face. "How dare you refuse me?"

Makareth grit his teeth. "Get off me." He pushed Laggoran away, but the other was stronger than him, and he only managed to free one of his arms. He pushed a thumb into Laggoran's eye, trying to inflict as much pain as possible, his anger feeding on the offense of being weaker and defeated.

He didn't manage to do any damage. Laggoran blinked, pushing himself up on one elbow to increase the distance between the young Druchii's fingers and his face, and his hand shot to Makareth' wrist. His grip was like steel. "Maybe, hah!" he snarled. "Maybe, I'll just risk that kick in my face." He let go and stood up from the bed in one quick movement, taking hold of Makareth legs like he did the last time when he tried to undress him unceremoniously, and pulling.

The young Druchii struggled and kicked, but he was no match for Laggoran; and then he had an idea. He put on a pleasant smile and reached for the cords of his pants, unbinding them, waited till the now grinning corsair had pulled them off, and then darted to the armor and weapon stand.

Before he could reach his sword, Laggoran cut off his way and sent him to the floor with one punch to his cheekbone.

The young Druchii's ears rang. Slowly, he sat up. The blur left his eyes slowly, but the room was still spinning.

Laggoran pulled him up by his torn robe. "Don't you understand, foolish child? I could just take what I want."

Makareth looked at him, stupefied. "I am not a child," he muttered meekly. He half expected the corsair to beat him up now, like he did when Makareth had refused to drink with him on the skiff. Maybe he would also rape him like he had raped the wounded assassin, face pushed onto the floor, on all fours. It was not a pleasant thought. The young Druchii looked at the weapon stand. It was still too far from his reach.

Laggoran didn't do any of these things. His dark eyes were cold now, not even angry; he just dropped the stunned Makareth onto the bed and went out, not bothering to pick up the goblet and the wine keg.

Makareth slumped down onto the floor, filled the goblet and drank. He drank till the keg was empty. The consumption of so much liquid left him with a certain urge, and he left his chambers to go to the garderobe. Not wishing to talk to anyone in his bad mood, he sneaked through the corridor soundlessly.

When he passed Hadranir's room on his way back, he heard a female voice that he remembered, the voice of the silver-haired Asur slave girl. Of course, now that Adragil was dead, she belonged to Laggoran, and he was free to give her to whomever he wanted. He hadn't offered her to Makareth, though.

She screamed. Drunken, Makareth leaned against the stone wall, listening to her screams till they became coarse, and then stopped; and he thought that Hadranir probably killed her this time. The thought made his mood even gloomier, even though he didn't understand why a slave was at once so important to him; he stood there, in darkness, and wondered if he could knock and ask Hadranir if she was really dead.

But then he heard Hadranir's melodic voice, in soft, rhythmical moans, and then Laggoran laughing and saying something obscene breathily. Hate flamed up in his heart, and he wished he had his sword with him, to enter the room and kill Hadranir and Laggoran in the same way that the latter had killed Adragil and Akarin; but instead he ran into his room and locked the door.

He kicked the empty keg away, and then he threw himself onto his bed and cried for the first time in twenty years, cried for the loss of his first friend ever, not caring if this, too, was weakness.


	12. 12 - Dru Perim

**PART XII: Dru Perim**

_or: Point of no Return_

Next day, in the early afternoon, they took the nauglir with them on board of a skiff that belonged to another member of the Clan of Thorns. Of course, Lykaon paid for it – it was a simple transport, no raid in which the crew could find any loot as a reward for their work.

Laggoran has brought them to the docks, dressed in his usual way, but wearing the traditional seadragon cloak of a corsair over his shoulders, and a barbed whip at his side. He bowed to Lykaon respectfully and said farewell to the rest. He didn't even look at Makareth once.

It was autumn, and the wind was strong in the sails of the skiff, even without sorcery. Standing at the railing once again, looking at the hoarfrost on the branches of the dark pines at the riverside, Makareth thought that the Sea of Malice and the rivers would be partly frozen soon. That would mean that Laggoran, if he left now for his expedition to Ulthuan, would not return till spring.

Makareth had made his choice. His own decision. By the time they reached the Sea of Malice, Makareth already doubted it.

They never reached Naggorond.

The wind, now only a shallow breeze, warm for this season, played with the sails. The corsairs whipped the slaves at the oars, and the skiff regained speed, gliding over the waves of the Gulf of Naggorond.

Lykaon joined Makareth at the railing. "We will go on land in half an hour. Be ready. Have you already covered yourself in nauglir poison?"

"Go on land? But we are nowhere near Naggorond yet!" The young Druchii turned to his lord.

"Wait and see." The Naggorite smiled his shark smile again.

The Cold Ones, now brought up onto the deck from their cages in the rump of the ship, were nervous. They didn't like being on a ship. Karn growled, his tail whipping, and tread from one foot onto the other, the wooden planks almost cracking under his weight. Naggorond or the mountains guarding the entry into the Underway weren't yet in sight, but the land was already rising, the shore and the Slaver's Road on its side becoming less accessible with each moment. Makareth sat in the saddle, looking at the black rocks that rose high at the sides of the river.

Lykaon had asked the captain to slow down; the oars moved in the opposite direction, and the skiff had lost speed quickly.

"Lord, how are we supposed to go on land here? There are no docks, and the shore is too high and steep for the nauglir to climb up. Will we leave the beasts on the ship?" Makareth pulled the cloak around his shoulders. The breeze was slowly becoming chillier as the pale daylight weakened.

"We fly," the Dreadlord said.

Ruathac put away his pipe and climbed onto his nauglir. Hadranir yawned sleepily – he had been sleeping all the time since they had left Clar Karond, curled up in the bed of their cabin, like a sated, lazy cat. Both seemed not surprised by the Lord's words in the least.

Makareth thought that he understood something wrong. "Fly? Fly, dread lord? But this is impossible! How are we…" He shut his mouth, remembering the flying beasts Ruathac had mentioned. Maybe Lykaon would summon them… But what would they do with the nauglir, then?

The Naggorite smiled. "Do you think someone who once had participated in making castles and islands fly would fail at levitating a single skiff?"

Makareth felt goosebumps on his skin. Castles, he repeated under his breath. Islands. By the Dark Mother, what kind of man was Lykaon?

Lykaon had closed his eyes, as if he was listening to something. His lips moved soundlessly.

And then the deck moved slightly, and Karn's claws screeched over the wood, as he slid to the left, and then back to the right. The whole ship shook, slowly rising out of the waves, water running down its sides. Flabbergasted, Makareth looked at the high rocks that seemed to shrink, now that the ship was moving upwards.

Lykaon was now speaking aloud, chanting, the breeze growing into a storm around him, purple lightnings exploding from his fingertips and the horns of the crescent moon comb in his hair. His spiked, laquered armor reflected them, multiplying the shine, bathing even his nauglir in ghostly beams. The words that left his mouth grew into a howling song when the ship, now level with the top of the rocky shore, rose above it, moved sideways, and then hung in midair, one half of the rump over the stony spikes and one half over the river.

Hadranir gave his nauglir the spurs, and it took two steps to the railing, jumping over it and landed on the rocks safely. The beautiful Druchii waved at the others to join him.

Ruathac went next, his mount landing only a sword length from Hadranir's, making the other nauglir snap at him angrily.

Makareth forced Karn to move forwards, fearing that he wouldn't know how to make the Cold One jump – but the old beast did it on its own, pushing itself into the air with the powerful hind legs, flying through the air and landing heavily on the black stony ground.

The young Druchii asked himself how Lykaon would get off the ship and continue working his spell at the same time. He was about to ask about it when Hadranir took out a strangle instrument made out of bone out of a saddle bag, similar to a pipe, and blew into it. A shrieking sound, even louder than Lykaon's still unbroken scream, made Makareth' ears hurt.

The last nauglir emerged over the railing and landed in front of Hadranir, its head turning, in search for the call of the pipe. It had probably been trained to react to this sound. Hadranir put the instrument away, smiling.

Lykaon sat on the back of his mount, eyes still closed, still singing the dissonant chant. The skiff moved backwards and down, sinking slowly, until its lower half was in the water again. Exhausted, the Dreadlord closed his mouth and leaned forwards, supporting himself with his hands on the saddle. Sweat drops covered his pale, age-creased face, and for a moment his eerie attractiveness had dissolved, and Makareth thought that he looked at an old man, weary from a very long, very tiring life. And it probably had been a long life indeed, he thought.

But then Lykaon opened his green burning eyes, and straightened his back, and the momentary impression of weariness was gone, and the lord was again his charismatic, proud self, power and danger radiating from him. He gave his nauglir the spurs, and they followed him, heading away from the river over the rocky ground.

The nauglir crossed the stones of the Slaver's road, and Lykaon led them straight into the forest, to the north-east.

Curiosity tormented Makareth, and after less than an hour, he drove Karn forwards, till he was at Lykaon's side. "Dread lord, what I just witnessed was a showcase of unbelievable power. How did you do it?" He was a bit afraid that Lykaon would be angered by such a question, but he had to know.

The lord smiled. "I have been wondering when you'd notice that I am not just a vauvalka. Ruathac and Hadranir know already who I am; let me tell you first that I am not an enemy of great Malekith, though I would prefer you not to run to his court and reveal to him my true identity. The law of Naggor says that the men of Naggor are allowed to wield magic as long as the Witchlord and his Seeress keep an eye on them. Balneth Bale is a descendant of one of the few Dru Perim that survived Malekith' rage. Do you know who the Dru Perim are?"

Makareth almost fell from Karn's back. "Dru Perim? Of course I know! It is said that they were worshippers of an unholy power, leaders of the Cult that caused the fall of Nagarythe itself!"

"This is what is said, yes." Lykaon's face lost its shark smile. "But it is not the truth. What do you know of the Fall of Nagarythe, young one? I will tell you the truth, and then I'll decide if you are worthy to live on with that knowledge."

Makareth listened, while they rode, to the tale that Lykaon told them, and the more he heard of it, the more his heart was filled with awe.

"When the ancient Nagarythe, our home on the Isle of Ulthuan, broke apart through the force of the magical energies that the Asur threw upon it, our castles and cities were saved through magic. Nowadays, the Druchii tell their children that it was the Dark Mother herself who, fearing for her children, gave our settlements the ability to travel upon the waves." Lykaon didn't look at Makareth but into the mist rising all around them in the dusk. "So know that it is true that the cities of Nagarythe arrived in the Land of Chill as moving islands; and it is true that the greatest of them became the hearts of cities in Naggoroth or turned into the sea fortresses called the Black Arks today." He turned back to Makareth, his eyes shining brighter at once, blazing with angry green fire. "But know that it is not true that a goddess saved us! It was the work of mortal Druchii, and the greatest sorcery ever seen by the eyes of an elf!"

Makareth rode at the lord's side, but sometimes he had to fall back when one of the enormous pines were in their way. He caught up and waited for Lykaon to continue.

"The Dru Perim were not just those fallen cultists that everyone believes them to be! They were the elite of the ancient nobilty of Nagarythe; they were Malekith' own sorcerer cabale, and the center of their studies and research was the old city of Naggor. Their talent for magic and their knowledge of the arcane arts had no match in the whole world. Not even the mages of Saphery could compare themselves to these great sorcerers! Even more so, many a gifted elf from Saphery came to Nagarythe in the times before the fall, to join the cabale of the Dru Perim around Malekith." Lykaon raised his chin, his body language following the memory that seemingly evoked feelings of pride."When the the magical assault of the Asur destroyed our ancient home, in a storm unseen before, when the great waves clashed onto the shores and earth broke apart and the land shifted, and Nagarythe and Tiranoc were wiped from the face of the world, it was the magic of the Dru Perim which saved the Naggarothi."

"They saved the Naggarothi?" Makareth had never heard the legend told this way, and he was confused.

Lykaon nodded. "It was their magic that lifted the cities and rescued them from the feral rage of nature, and they lead the first Black Arks over the ocean and into the icy land of Naggaroth. Once the Arks arrived in the Land of Chill, Malekith ordered them to place the his own Ark onto the land to become his new capital. The Dru Perim obeyed."

"But what happened to them then? I thought the Dru Perim were all slain by the Witchking because they were participating in dark, forbidden rites! If they were not cultists of unholy gods but his own sorcerer cabale, why did they disappear?" Makareth gave Karn the spurs, because Lykaon's nauglir was getting faster out some reason, and he wanted to keep up.

"You will learn of it in time; be patient." Lykaon pulled on the reigns, but the nauglir wasn't impressed. "What is up with this beast? There is probably a deer close by; he is hungry. We should let the nauglir hunt soon if we don't want them to turn on us." He looked back at his young liegeman. "But back to your question – they were killed by Malekith. They knew he would not need them further, and that they would be only a threat to his authority. In a desperate attempt to show him that he needed them, that it was their power that rescued the Naggarothi and not his, they moved their own Ark, the ancient Naggor, even further into the land that they did with Naggorond, placing it to the north of the capital."

Makareth felt a cold shiver go down his spine as he realized the scale of the blasphemy Lykaon was telling him about. "The Witchking must have been raging with fury!"

"Oh yes, he was. Even more so, as there was a sinister prophecy that threatened his reign; the prophecy that a firstborn son of a noble family will learn to wield the darkest arts of magic and one day defeat Malekith. And so the Witchking decided that he would slay them all, and forbid males to learn magic from that day." The Dreadlord's dark lips were a thin line, the deep creases on his face an ornamented mask of restrained anger. He looked like a vengeful ghost in the dusk.

"But how did Balneth Bale's ancestor survive, then?" Makareth pulled the cloak closer around him. It was getting cold now that the night had fallen. The rocks had been replaced by a vast forest of the same dark pines that grew all over Naggoroth, and he felt a bit uncomfortable, not being able to see far. He wondered how Lykaon and the others knew in which direction to go.

"Maybe you have heard of the Orb of Malkin. It is an artifact with the power to see through time, passed down from one Witchlord to the next, and those who are skilled enough to use it are able to recognize the hidden possibilities that lie ahead and to choose the right path." Lykaon suddenly stopped speaking and squinted his green eyes, turning back to the other two liegemen. "What is it, Ruathac?"

The Shade that had been riding last in line had brought his nauglir to a halt and silently dismounted. He held his index finger in front of his lips and disappeared between the pines.

They waited. The Cold Ones were becoming nervous; Karn sniffed the air noisily and shook his ugly head, and Makareth gripped the handle of his sword. Something was approaching them.

Ruathac came back, running through the underwood, leaping over a fallen tree. He climbed back into the saddle, his gray eyes wide. His voice was a coarse whisper as he fought for breath. "Quick, to the west! There is a group of warriors on the way, either heading to the Watch Towers or the Tombs of the kings, and there are at least fifteen of them. Judging by the crest on their leader's shield, they are from Hag Graef." He pointed into the darkness. "They are on Cold Ones, and have lances and crossbows. If we don't run, it will be our end!"

Makareth reacted too late. The others had already forced their nauglir into a heavy trot when he finally made Karn turn and follow them. More mist rose from the underwood, and he lost the sight of his companions. "Faster, Karn, faster!"

He gave the beast the spurs, and the Cold One slowly gained speed. The pines became a blur in Makareth eyes as is mount ran through the forest, and his heart beat fast. Why were they fleeing? If Lykaon was a mage capable of making a ship fly, he shouldn't have problems with just fifteen warriors. Why not simply stand and fight?

Karn jumped left, avoiding a tree, and Makareth had to grip the reigns to keep his balance when the nauglir stopped in its tracks. Stones rolled from under his claws and into the abyss below. A crack in the earth lay before them, twenty swordlengths wide and at least fifty deep; ragged rocks were covering its ground. Makareth looked to the sides, helplessly. The chasm was stretching to both sides, disappearing behind a barren hill on the right side and in the forest on the left. He didn't see Lykaon and the others anywhere.

He made a decision and rode left.

It turned out to be the right direction – soon he heard sounds of battle, metal clashing against metal, nauglir growling and Druchii screaming. He drove Karn onwards and deeper into the forest again, drawing his sword, ready to fight till his last breath. He felt the icy air against his teeth, and realized that he again was grinning.

The nauglir broke through the underwood onto a meadow drowning in mist, and in the pale moonlight, Makareth saw an eerie dance.

The warriors from Hag Graef were fighting – but not against the Naggorite lord and his retainers. They were attacked by a pack of glowing, wild, purple-skinned creatures that lashed out with crab-like claws, jumping onto the backs of the Nauglir without fear of being pierced by the Druchii swords. The lances that could have been the main advantage of the enemies were useless in close combat after the first strike, and the knights and their monstrous mounts were stopped in their assault, forced to defend themselves instead of attacking.

Daemons, Makareth thought, pulling at the reigns and trying to make Karn stop, these are daemons! The Druchii are fighting against spawn of Chaos! Karn didn't obey, and the next moment they were in the middle of the battle, a Druchii from Hag Graef on his right, his helmeted head in the scissor-like grip of a daemon, and another daemon on the left.

Makareth didn't know if he should fight the Knights from Hag Graef or the Chaos creatures; but the enemy knights were still Druchii, and he made his decision quickly. He swung his sword, aiming at the demonic thing that tried to pry open the knight's helmet, and his blade cut through its arm and severed the hideous claw. The daemon hissed, striking at him with the other arm, missed and vanished. The Chaos creature on the left tried to jump up unto Karn's back, and Makareth struck at it, splitting its head in two.

The enemy knight screamed something, and for a moment Makareth thought that he would attack him, but the enemy warrior forced his Cold One to jump forwards and hit with his sword at another daemon who had just pulled its claw from the ribcage of a dying Druchii.

Two daemons, having witnessed Makareth' attack on their kin, rushed towards him, one of them slashing at Karn's snout, the other one at Makareth' leg. He parried the claw that would otherwise have hit his knee and kicked the creature in the chest when it was close enough, following the momentum of its onslaught, sending it sliding over the snow and under the claws of one of the nauglir. Its spine was crushed by the Cold Ones paws.

The second daemon used the distraction that the first one had provided, dodged Karn's biting head and clamped its claw shut on his waist. The claw didn't cut through the silversteel, but it didn't let go, holding him in an unearthly strong grip and trying to pull him from the saddle; he screamed and hacked at the thing with his sword, but the daemon's other claw parried the blow. Suddenly, the knight whom Makareth had helped earlier turned his nauglir and brought it to a fast trot; the Cold One jumped forwards and closed its jaws on the daemon's head. The claw released its grip as the creature vanished with a purple flash.

The warrior from Hag Graef screamed again. This time, Makareth understood him. 'We fight together!' - that was what he had said.

The daemons were still many, and their sheer number was their main advantage; but then, Hadranir, Ruathac and Lykaon emerged from the forest and joined in, hacking at crab claws, horned heads and purple limbs.

"Khaine!" Makareth' voice became an exultant howl as he saw his companions finally coming back, and with renewed vigor he urged Karn forwards. The nauglir bit into the group of daemons in front of him, and Makareth dealt blows at those who escaped the Cold One's jaws. He heard only his heartbeat, blood rushing to his temples in a killing fever. Another purple creature threw itself on him, and he moved his sword forwards and up, impaling the fiend. It brought down its claw on his head, but he ducked away, and it only scraped the side of his scalp before disappearing with a shriek. He regained his balance in the saddle and raised his sword again, and there was another of the Chaos daemons to strike at, and then another, and when he pulled his sword free from the last purple body, seeing it dissolve into smoke, he noticed that silence had fallen onto the meadow.

There were no more daemons left. Slow, icy realization crept into his mind, cooling his blood instantly. The daemons were defeated. And now it would be Hag Graef against Naggor.

But the knights from Hag Graef, now only nine, having lost more than one third of their group in battle, didn't attack. The one whom Makareth had rescued at first, seemingly the leader of the group, rode up to him, weapons sheathed. "We have fought as allies against Chaos spawn. You have saved my life, Naggorite. But there is a feud."

Makareth swallowed. "Yes. We did. I did. Against Chaos, we should always unite."

The knight frowned. "You don't speak like a Naggorite, not with a northern accent."

"Hag Graef." Makareth felt the words like ice shards in his throat. "I am Makareth from Hag Graef."

"Then you are not Naggorites?" The knight looked at Lykaon and the others.

Makareth thought he saw Lykaon grinning from the corner of his eye. With more courage, his voice not trembling anymore, he said: "We are from Hag Graef. We have orders to infiltrate the surroundings of Naggor and bring the Drachau the information about the numbers of raiding troops the Naggorites sent out."

"But you are riding a nauglir, skillfully like only a noble would, and you behave like one; and I don't know you." The hand of the knight descended onto the handle of his sword slowly.

"I was just recently honored by the Drachau to become a noble; it has only been two winters. I am sure a Highborn like you, dread lord, doesn't know all the lower-ranking nobles at the Drachau's court personally." He stared into the eyes of the Cold One Knight calmly. "The Drachau would not be glad to hear that you slew his spies, though; maybe it is best for both of us if we go our ways."

The knight thought about possible consequences briefly and then nodded. "Yes. We go our separate ways. Good hunting!"

"Good hunting!" Makareth watched him return to the others and then disappear between the trees. Then he turned back to Lykaon. "What happened here?"

The Dreadlord rode closer and allowed his nauglir to feast on the bodies of the dead Druchii. "I would say, my dear liegeman, that you have just proved that you are worthy to live on after I have told you the truth about me. You are the best liar I ever encountered."


	13. 13 - The Frozen Ark

**PART XIII: Naggor**

_or: The Prize is Close_

Hadranir's Cold One stepped closer and buried the bloody snout in the open ribcage of a dead con-specific. Hadranir laughed and sheathed his swords. His silvery voice scared away the small predators of the forest that had approached the meadow, drawn by the smell of blood, and their hardly visible shapes moved between the trees frantically. "I don't think they would have attacked us after we fought together anyway."

They rode on, as if nothing had happened; indeed, no one of their group had been wounded. Now that Makareth thought of it, the daemons hadn't attacked Lykaon, Hadranir and Ruathac at all, after the three had joined the fight. He furrowed his brow. "Lord, why did the daemons not attack you?"

Lykaon smirked. "Because I had summoned them, foolish child. My magic might be powerful, but it has to be worked carefully and from the distance if it needs to work against a worthy enemy. These were no humans we had to fight against; have you ever seen Cold One Knights in their assault? And we were outnumbered; so I adjusted the odds a bit."

Makareth coughed. "You summoned daemons? Daemons?"

"Why not? After they had diminished the enemy, we would have it easier to defend ourselves... Though I must say, your solution was more elegant than my original plan. Still, when we saw you fighting the daemons on the side of the knights from Hag Graef, I was a bit angered. The creatures were summoned with you not here, and they didn't recognize you as an ally. They could have killed you."

"Kill me? They would have killed all of us!" The young Druchii was confused. "You don't just mess with the Realm of Chaos!" He had spoken louder than he intended, and his last words echoed in the forest. His heart froze at the sound.

"I haven't told you the rest of the story yet, Makareth." Lykaon leaned back in the saddle, looking to the north. "As soon as the Cold Ones have eaten, we will continue our way, and I will tell you more of the legend of the Dru Perim; it might help you understand."

The dawn was approaching, and the forest ended and gave place to a vast plane of white. Makareth didn't like it; they were exposed and easy targets here, without the trees. But the others didn't seem to worry.

Lykaon told him about Balneth Bale's ancestor. The Orb of Malkin, a sphere of glassy crystal, was a powerful artifact, the origin of which was lost in shadows. Used by a powerful seer, it could foretell the future, or more precisely, the different lines of future, as any deed could change the course and give the fate a slightly different direction. Balneth Bale's ancestor himself was a sorcerer, and a great one; but he was not a seer. He wasn't able to see what would happen when the Dru Perim rebelled against the Witchking, moving the Black Ark of Naggor further into the lands than Naggorond itself; and this mistake almost cost him his life.

But he had a consort, a sorceress as beautiful as a starry night, who was also a seer, trained and taught by the Queen Morathi herself, and she was the one able to read all the secrets of the Orb of Malkin. She had looked into the Orb, and had been warned about the possible consequences as soon as the rebellious act had happened.

While Naggor was moved over the land, she had not been at her lover's side, staying with Morathi in Naggorond; but as soon as she heard what happened, she fell on her knees in front of the Queen and begged her to spare the sorcerer's life. She showed Morathi the omen shown by the Orb, and in it Morathi saw that no man born in Naggor would be a danger to Malekith' rule.

The Queen-Mother agreed to persuade the Witchking to spare the foolish lover of the Seeress; but she would not ask Malekith to abstain from slaying the rest of the Dru Perim. The Seeress herself would have to travel to Naggor and watch over the developments, telling Morathi of any danger that would arise from the fact that Naggor still had male users of magic.

The Seeress agreed, and that was how the life of Balneth Bale's ancestor had been saved. That is also the reason why Naggor, as the only settlement of the Druchii in Naggaroth, did not forbid males the use of magic, as long as a Seeress faithful to the the Witchking's mother, watched over the Witchlord's affairs.

At this point, Lykaon had sighed and squinted his eyes. The bleak sun appeared on the horizon in the east, and its cold rays made the eternal snow plane around them bright and painful to look on. "The life of the first Naggorite Witchlord and the tradition allowing Naggor to have male sorcerers had a price. In all generations, the firstborn male of a noble family is sacrificed, to ensure that the prophecy will never come true through a Naggorite hand."

Makareth looked into the distance. Far away, black shapes had appeared, now that the mist had dissolved, giving way to the short day of the northern autumn. Towers, with remainders of enormous wooden masts adorning them, were rising over the icy waste. "This is but a small price, not much more than the price each city with a Temple of Khaine has to pay." Makareth turned his head to Lykaon. "In Hag Graef, the Witch Elves steal infants every Death Night; they kill adult Druchii if they see any, too." He thought of his mother, feeling dull pain in his heart; ever since Sorceress Vestara has suggested that there was a reason to her death, remembering her had begin to hurt.

"Yes, that might be true – even more so as there is no Temple of Khaine in Naggor, only a shrine." Lykaon pointed to the towers ahead. "We are nearing Naggor. There it is, the Black Ark frozen into the ice of the endless northern waste... Behold its magnificence." The lord's voice was bitter with irony.

"Lord..." Makareth swallowed, looking to the black towers and back to the Dreadlord. "You still haven't told me what the story of the Dru Perim has to do with you... Or with the daemons."

"Balneth Bale's ancestor was not the only one of the Dru Perim who survived." Lykaon smiled a bitter smile. "Furion, one of the three leaders of Clar Karond, is not only a corsair lord, but also a sorcerer – he is the second... And there is at least one more." He gave the nauglir the spores, and rode forwards, leaving the group behind.

Makareth cursed under his breath and followed. "Dread lord, I don't understand!"

Lykaon's gray and black hair flowed in the cold wind, and the claws of the Cold One raised snow dust from the white ground. He looked at the young liegeman, and his eyes were full of mischievous fire. "I am," he laughed, "I am that third Dru Perim!" He threw back his head, this gesture reminding of Hadranir, making him appear younger and rebellious.

For a moment Makareth saw a vision of him in ancient times - the Lord must have looked very much like Hadranir back then, in those times of legends; but unlike his weak and perverted nephew, he must have been a proud soul, a young man full of hopes and ambitions. How horrible must it have been for him when everyone of his allies and friends had been slain in treason by the one whom they followed and adored the most!

Suddenly, Lykaon spoke again, his laughter ending as abruptly as it had began, and his last words, spoken low so that only Makareth heard them, were serious and threatening. "And maybe you should know as well, my dear vassal, that the legend speaking of the Dru Perim being favored by the power you call the Prince of Darkness... is true."

Makareth continued riding, his mind not instantly able to grasp the whole scale of this truth. Lykaon forced his Cold One into a run towards the street that lead to the towering gray gate of the stationary Ark, leaving the young Druchii behind. Several minutes passed in silence, until Hadranir appeared on his right, and his hand smacked Makareth on the back of the head lightly, the beautiful face of the lord's nephew a mocking smile.

"He, child, wake up! We are already there." Hadranir gave his nauglir the spurs and followed Lykaon.

There were carts on the street, pulled by horses; Druchii, wrapped in furs, wool and leather, and slaves, freezing in rags, passed before their eyes in an endless line. A Highborn and his two retainers on nauglir were following the road as well, and Lykaon's face lightened up as he saw the small group.

The Dreadlord rode up to the other noble, calling from afar, and the horse-wagon behind them made place respectfully as they joined the group. The nauglir were treading on the black stones of the road, hardly covered by snow anymore from all the feet, claws and hooves.

"Lykaon!" The other Highborn exclaimed. "You've been gone for more than a year! Were you successful in you business?"

"I was! But you know me – spent everything as quickly as I earned it. And how have you been, Danaris, my friend?" Lykaon smiled. His voice sounded lighthearted in an unfamiliar way, but Makareth saw that his body tensed up and that his right hand was lying on his thigh, suspiciously close to the handle of the sword. "Still searching for treasure and loot in the northern wastes?"

"No, I have been chasing rats from Hag Graef!" Danaris laughed. Only his mouth and chin were visible, as he wore a horned helmet of blackened metal. "We have hunted down ten of them, but the rest of my group were unlucky, I must say. The loyal Karelion and Rioneth the Red are the only ones left other than me." He pointed at his two retainers.

Lykaon nodded towards the gate. "What is taking them so long again? This line is marching slower than a wounded human!"

The other Highborn shrugged, metal pauldrons clinking against breastplate as his shoulders sank again. "They are suspicious lately; rumors have come to my ears that Balneth Bale fears an intruder. They say something dark lies in the future ahead of us."

Lykaon furrowed his brow and said no more.

The guards at the gate let them through after Lykaon said something to them, leaning down from the saddle, but argued for a longer time with Danaris and his retainers, and so they left them behind.

"Be careful when dealing with Danaris, Makareth." Lykaon turned back to the young Druchii.

Makareth had trouble listening. The cavern behind the gate was as full as a marketplace, so many Druchii and slaves moving in it, that he felt overwhelmed; it was as crowded as the pier of Karond Kar but in a space that was ten, no, hundred times smaller. He looked up at the low ceiling and at the pillars adorned with carvings which were not easy to identify due to the ages-old sediment of smoke and dust particles covering them; at the enormous witchlight lanterns hanging from the pillars and throwing their greenish light on the people in the hall; and a claustrophobic feeling that had not been on the Black Ark that moved across the ocean clutched his heart in its claw. He yearned for the dark walls and eternal shadows of Hag Graef, upon which a bleak streak of heaven was still visible; for the swaying pines and ship masts surrounding Clar Karond; for the howling winds and the shrieking of the harpies above the roofs of Karond Kar.

It was as if the definite knowledge that the lord indeed was a follower of an Unholy Power materialized, becoming dark, suffocating walls and the moving of unknown faces in the dusk, each on capable of murder.

The young Druchii wasn't able to memorize the endless tunnel roads which lead them to the upper city in spirals and countless turns. When they finally dismounted and brought the nauglir to Lykaon's private stables, Makareth was already ill with homesickness.

The stairs led them into one of the towers. They entered Lykaon's chambers; finally, Makareth saw bleak sunlight through narrow windows with red stained glass, beams in which dust glittered, and he felt a bit better.

The walls of the room they stood in were covered with tapestries depicting gardens of colourful trees and birds with white feathers; a carved bench, lacquered in black and gold, stood under one of the windows. In one of the corners, Makareth saw a strange sphere-like object the size of a nauglir's head on a golden stand; its wooden surface seemed to be engraved with a map.

"I am going to my rooms; I hope to see you in the evening for the meal, my lord." Hadranir bowed his head to Lykaon and disappeared through one of the rooms leading out of the small entrance hall.

Ruathac just went silently through the same door.

An elven slave, a graceful blond female with blue and green flowers tattooed on her arms, entered through an arch on Makareth right. She knelt in front of Lykaon, keeping a respectful distance.

The lord smiled. "Show my new retainer his rooms. He can have those that belonged to Niodar." He nodded to Makareth. "Come to see me at sunset. I want to rest now."

Makareth followed her. The rooms she showed him consisted of a bedroom with a fireplace, a small study with several bookcases, a desk and a heap of pillows on the floor; the books were old and mostly vellum-bound. He took out one of them and stared onto the pages. It was about tactics in combat. Whoever Niodar had been, he seemed to be an educated man. The last room was a bath with dark blue paneled walls; not simply with a wooden barrel or a tub but with a bassin inlet into the floor; Makareth wondered how this thing would function; it probably had some mechanism through which water could be brought in and out again. Another fireplace was built into the wall of the bath.

He turned to the slave. "I want to take a bath now." He was curious, and he had time on his hands.

The elven slave nodded, her eyes cast down.

He watched her and another slave – an Asur like her, but a male – carry in buckets of hot and cold water and pour perfumed oils smelling of spice and honey into it. They helped him take of his armor, and when he finally slid into the water, he gestured for the female High Elf to come in with him.

So let it be the Dark Prince, he thought, his hands on the hips of the Asur, her oil-slick arms around his shoulders. If it is the price that I have to pay to get what I want – so be it.

The winds howled around the spires and roofs of his new home, and in the winds there was a whisper about a sinister future lying ahead; but he was blind to the winds, and he didn't understand their tongues.

But Belladon, the Seeress of the Frozen Ark, staring into the Orb of Malkin, cried out in horror in a neighboring tower; the vision revealed to her was one that the Witchlord Balneth Bale certainly should learn of, and as quickly as possible.


	14. 14 - Balneth Bale

**PART XIV: Balneth Bale**

_or: The Next Obstacle_

The hall at the base of the central citadel was bigger that any other room Makareth has seen in the upper part of Naggor; it was fifty swords in width and fifty in length, of a vaguely circular form. Along the walls were tapestries depicting battles and scenes at court in the lives of the warlocks of Naggor, though Makareth could not say he recognized any of the figures depicted; between them, statues of winged creatures with fierce faces and slender bodies of female Druchii held bronze plates on which candles and witchlight lanterns were placed, and reliefs of wyverns, hydras and basilisks wound into the height above the statues. The hall ended in an arch as wide as the wall itself; serpentine carvings in the dark stone in the arch framed a passage to a low podium. Broad stairs of polished black marble lead to a throne made of the blackened metal and ivory and adorned with barbed vines of pure gold. Behind the throne was an enormous figure of a wingless dragon, towering over it protectively, and Makareth thought to recognize stairs built into the scaly body, leading to upper floors of the tower that were obscured by sorcery, an illusory night sky with stars glimmering above. The throne stood in the middle of the podium, but the face of the figure sitting on it seemed obscured by shadow.

Along the curving walls of the hall, in front of the tapestries, stood Druchii in ceremonial black armor, forged in an old-fashioned way, the surfaces of the plates covered with depictions of dragons and serpents. Each of them was armed with two swords, and additionally the archaic weapons called the ghlaith and the lakelui, symbols of their belonging to the high nobility; and their faces behind the dragon-wing-like face-guards of their helmets were pale and marked by age and the scars of uncountable fights. They were the famous Witchguard, and they stood so still that they seemed to be as lifeless as the figures of the winged women.

Lykaon advanced and fell down on one knee in front of the podium, bowing his head to the one sitting on the throne. The unsteady light sparked golden reflections upon the red-purple and black plates and golden spikes of Lykaon armor and the crescent moon in his hair. Makareth looked at the reflections and thought that the figure of the lord, in this pose of respect and in this light, on the background of darkness, looked like a statue carved in crimson gemstone and lined in gold, just another work of that eerie sculptor that made the stone harpies, the unmoving warriors in their black plate, and the dark silhouette on the ivory throne.

"My lord, I have returned, and I bring you a tribute from the raid!" Lykaon broke the silence. At a waving of his hand, servants rushed forwards and placed an iron-bound chest at the foot of the stairs. They opened the lid, and the golden coins and jewels inside it shone and shimmered in the flickering yellow and green of the lanterns and candles. "I hope you will accept this offer; and with this, as always, accept my service and loyalty to you."

"Lykaon." The voice from the throne was a warm baritone, and Makareth thought to hear a faint chuckle in it. "I accept. Welcome back."

Makareth and Hadranir, both three steps behind Lykaon, stayed on their knees as well. Makareth tried to distinguish features in the shadow of the podium, but could only make out a five-horned helmet and shoulders covered by a cloak of black bear hide.

Balneth Bale spoke again. "As I said, Lykaon, I accept your oath. But I cannot grant you what you have asked for in your message sent to me some time ago. Your young servant will not be accepted as a noble at my court."

"But my lord, I have described you his virtues and his excellent skill as a warrior!" Lykaon suddenly reached out and opened his hand. Bright blue beams radiated from his clawed fingers, in which he held a pendant of a blue stone encased in reddish gold. "This pendant belonged to an archmage of a fleet from Cothique; the boy I am asking you about has slain the mage all by himself. I present you this artifact as a tribute, too – it is full of arcane power that a wise sorcerer like you will be able to use."

Balneth Bale stood up and walked to the top of the stairs. Finally, Makareth saw him; his five-horned helmet was depicting a skull with a big jewel as a third eye; the black armor, adorned with silver and gold, was of an elegant, simple design and polished to an unearthly shine. A great long sword in a scabbard with emeralds and small rubies, glistening like blood drops on the metal ornaments covering the black leather, was at his side. He was tall and slender, and his movements were graceful like those of a lynx. His face, or what was seen of it, had no scars, and despite a greyish undertone to his skin, it seemed hardly touched by age. A feline smile was on his lips. To his surprise, Makareth thought that the Witchlord, despite the majestic attire, looked more like a mischievous youth than like a frightening warrior, attractive, but not to be taken seriously. It felt strange to see Lykaon, whose aura of enigmatic might was almost tangible, kneeling in front of this grinning Druchii.

"That is a nice gift." The Witchlord nodded contently, walked down the stairs with a light pace and snatched the pendant from Lykaon's clawed hand. "But don't get me wrong – I would gladly grant you this wish. I know you mourn the loss of your eldest nephew," Here Balneth Bale chuckled again, his dark eyes radiating sarcastic amusement, "And your wish to have another loyal warrior at your side is understandable, especially one that has proved his worth to you, is understandable. I would have agreed, if it was not for Belladon's vision."

"Belladon's vision?" Lykaon sounded worried; he shifted on his knee, as if the position was becoming uncomfortable for him.

"Yes." Balneth Bale turned around, his fur cloak swaying, and moved back to his throne and sat down. "My beautiful Seeress has given me a warning. She saw misery and destruction in the path of the boy that you bring to my court; dreadful events that would engulf Naggorond, our capital; she saw him standing in a circle of arcane flames, before an army of hideous beasts summoned from the realms of horror; and she saw other things of which even I would not dare to speak. How can I give a title to someone who might bring such a fate upon our lands? It would fall back on me, and I might be considered guilty; and I do not have the need to be sentenced to death at a stake on great Malekith' walls."

Makareth listened to the speech, and his eyes went wider with every word, his heart beating painfully loud. A fear so intense that it almost made him retch took hold of him, and he felt sweat drops running down his brow. They believed he would be a danger to Naggaroth; that would mean they would certainly kill him. His hand slid to he handle of his sword. If they would attack him, he thought, he could at least take two or three with him into the halls of Ereth Kial.

Lykaon growled in frustration at such an answer, but seemingly forced himself to calm again. When he spoke, his voice lacked any emotion. "What will you do now, my lord? Will you order the Witchguard to slay him, and Hadranir and me as well?"

"No." The Witchlord looked at the shining pendant. "I will not kill him. Nor will I kill you. I am loyal to our king, and to Naggorond as our capital; but I do not know the nature of the threat this boy imposes on Naggaroth. The Orb of Malkin didn't directly imply him to be the one who causes the desaster; and who knows, maybe his fate will even bring advantages to us. He might be the one who defends the capital against this army of monstrosities instead of leading them in their assault; Belladon's vision wasn't clear enough to see what his role will be. But you will have to send him away. His presence here is a risk."

"Send him away?" Lykaon clenched his fists. "If it is your order, my lord, I will do so; but please give me a couple of weeks to organize everything for his depart. He is a relative of mine, and that is why I hoped he could take Niodar's place in my household; I don't want him to return to Hag Graef, where he would certainly be executed for treason."

The young Druchii breathed in and out, concentrating on the sound and feel of the air that left and entered his lungs. Thinking of leaving the lord was unpleasant; but thinking about returning to Hag Graef, to the misery of selling hair-dye the threats of his aunt, after coming so close to a fulfillment of his dreams, was painful beyond compare.

Balneth Bale closed his gauntleted hand around the pendant. "Yes, a few weeks you will be granted; but do not make it too long. You can leave now, Lykaon."

The Dreadlord lowered his head and rose, walking past Makareth and Hadranir who instantly bowed to the Witchlord and then stood up to follow their liegelord.

"Lykaon?" Bale's voice echoed in the hall. "Maybe you should be careful in the next time; I heard the Hag of the Temple of Khaine in Hag Graef has a personal matter to discuss with you."

Two days later, Makareth still remembered each word Balneth Bale had said, and each time when he recalled the events, he felt his hands shake and his heart skip a beat.

The audience had taken place the day after their arrival. Since then, Lykaon still hadn't told Makareth what his plans were.

The smoke rose from the brazier. The smell of bitter and spicy herbs from Lustria filled the air of the study. Makareth sat on the floor, turning the pages of a book the pages of which were made from human hide. Writing in Druhast covered the delicate material.

He had never expected Niodar to have been a poet. And the idea of writing a diary in verses amused him even more. He read the dead Druchii's words, and they were sweeter than dried berries of the northern forests to him; Niodar had played with words like other Dark Elves would with blades.

In the last two days he had felt betrayed and angry. He was so close to finally achieving his goal, and it was ripped out of his hand in the last moment. He wished he had stayed with Laggoran – that would have at least meant more possibilities to find glory. His choice seemed to have proven wrong. Now he had only a couple of weeks left, and then it would be back to the gutter, or even worth, death. He had paced his chambers like a hungry nauglir for hours, trying to think of a possibility to change the situation, but he had no idea how. Against the powers of a Seeress he was helpless.

The verse diaries that he had discovered in dead Niodar's study at least distracted him. In his worry, he didn't have enough patience to learn about tactics or to read about the history of Naggaroth, and had searched through the cases for something easier to understand when he found the poetry written by Lykaon's former vassal.

Some of the poetry was about battles, often describing the whole battlefield, and then changing the view to one of a single warrior. One of the poems was a longer one, weaving the battle at the beginning into a greater legend which had filled an entire book.

But most verses were about women, mostly noble ladies from Naggor. Makareth enjoyed Niodar's descriptions, sometimes ironic, sometimes admiring, and the rather explicit language describing his numerous adventures.

But in this book that he held in his hands he found something unusual, and despite enjoying the beautiful words, he felt himself tensing up when he understood what the poem was about. Why hadn't Lykaon discovered it before?

The lady that Niodar had written in these verses about must have been a person to whom he felt deep respect. The amused or lustful tone of the other poems was absent here; instead, the verses showed the lady as a creature of exceptional beauty, pureness and power. The poem told about her qualities in battle and about her wisdom, praised her passionate being but didn't include any erotic details. Only at the end did Niodar describe her physique, before ending the poem with the conclusion that he would never touch her, no matter how great his devotion to her might be; unless it would be in the kiss of death that she would grant him, should he fail in the quest she had sent him on.

Makareth thought about the poem, laying the book aside. Niodar had mentioned that the lady had white hair and fiery eyes, that she was moving faster than the wind, her daggers being almost a part of her body, and that she wore blood instead of garments. It was an enticing picture, yes. But it was clear that the woman depicted was a Witch Elf.

Niodar, Makareth thought, had sworn allegiance to a priestess of the Temple of Khaine. So much Lykaon already knew, as the young Druchii had heard the lord mentioning Adragil's and Dolus', two of his enemies', connections to the Temple; but who was this particular Witch Elf? Maybe she was the key to Lykaon's problems with the Khainites.

The young Druchii took the book and left his part of the tower. He asked one of Lykaon's servants to announce to the lord that he would like to speak to him, and waited, sitting on the bench under a window, looking at the tapestries. The birds on one of it seemed to move their long feathers from time to time, and suddenly Makareth realized that under this tapestry there must be a door; it was the draft that moved the fabric and created the illusion of movement. He wondered where the door would lead to.

Lykaon called him from a distance. "You wanted to say something?" The lord's voice was unusually cold, or at least Makareth perceived it to be; it was as if something had stood between them since their audience with the Witchlord.

"Yes. I think I might have found out something, my lord. Can we talk somewhere where no one else can hear us?"

The lord nodded and gestured him to follow.

They walked through the door leading to the spiral stairs that went up into the highest chamber of the tower. Makareth hadn't been to Lykaon's rooms yet. He was surprised by the fact that there were no tapestries on the walls in the large area that seemed to serve both as a bedroom and a study, and that all furniture was made of unadorned, dark wood – a table, two chairs, many high cases with scrolls and books, a chest, the lid open, its contents silk robes in dark colors thrown in without visible order. A bed covered with a heap of tangled woolen blankets and linen sheets stood at one of the walls, and a fireplace was giving warmth and light. The room was such a contrast to the rest of the tower that Makareth had seen so far, that he wasn't able to believe that the lord actually lived here.

"Sit down." Lykaon pointed at one of the chairs.

Makareth obeyed. "Lord, I have found these verses in Niodar's study." He held out the vellum-bound book.

"Verses?" Lykaon sat down on the edge of his bed and laughed. "How wonderful. One of my nephews paints pictures, and the other had written poetry. Did you really read it?"

"Yes." Makareth felt heat in his cheeks, suddenly ashamed at his own behavior. Reading sentimental poems was more fitting for a weakling Asur than for a Druchii. "I have found something that you should know."

The Dreadlord shook his head, his features distorted in an expression of disgust. "His verses are of no use to me. What importance could the dreams of a madman hold?"

The young Druchii swallowed. "He wrote of a Witch Elf he seemed quite enamoured with... I thought it might explain his connection with the Temple of Khaine, given that they seem to be after you."

Lykaon looked at him for a long while. Slowly, the expression changed to a milder, tired one. "I have already found out what I needed to know when I subjected him to torture, Makareth. I know that he had tried to betray me, that he asked Highborn families and the Temple of Khaine in Hag Graef for help in annihilating me. But it was years after his obsession with poetry." The lord walked over to the table, taking the iron goblet standing on it. He drank from it and put it back on the table, not offering any of the beverage to Makareth. "The chambers that you inhabit now were only his till he married eleven years ago; I have never cared to change their interieur because I didn't need the additional rooms and have kept it this way for the days when he stayed at my tower after the rituals. The Witch Elf he had desired is dead; she was one of those few priestesses from Ghrond that live at the shrine here in Naggor, and she was killed in that useless war between us and Hag Graef, during the battle in which I saw you fighting for the first time."

Makareth felt like a fool. Had he really imagined that the lord would not have known about Niador's deeds and plans? Lykaon must be offended, he thought. "Please excuse the disruption of your rest then, my lord. I will retire to my chambers until you need me." He stood up, his eyes cast down, and quickly went to the door that lead to the staircase.

"Wait." Lykaon's voice was at once full of enticing dark tones again. "I consider it a sign of your loyalty that you wished to inform me of possible enemies. Stay with me for a while; I will call for something to eat, and then we should discuss your future."

Makareth stopped in his tracks. Lykaon's voice almost never missed to send a shiver down his spine when he spoke like that, and the young Druchii wouldn't be able to walk on even if he wanted. But it was not this effect that made his heart beat faster. It was the relief that the lord finally wanted to talk to him about the terrible result of their audience with Bale; the hope that maybe something, somehow, could be done about it.

The Asur slave with the flower ornaments on her limbs and flaxen hair, the one he had already met on his first day in Naggor, brought a silver tray with freshly baked bread and roast meat as well as a pitcher with wine and two cups. She cast a side glance at Makareth when walking out, and he felt like being watched by something malicious for a moment. Maybe the last days spent in anxiety had taken their toll, he thought.

He poured wine for Lykaon, and then for himself, and took a piece of bread. He could barely taste it, so excited by his own hope that everything still could turn out well that he felt a lump in his throat.

Lykaon took a sip of the wine and put the cup onto the table. "There is a problem to be solved," he said thoughtfully, "And this problem is Belladon."

Makareth looked at his liegelord, stupefied. "Belladon? But how can I solve this problem? And what was that catastrophe that Balneth Bale was talking about at all?"

The lord smiled his shark smile. "Belladon is the one who doesn't want you here. Bale listens to her, even more, he relies on her prophetic powers for every decision. But Belladon doesn't like me. She knows what I am, her prophetic powers are great. But she hasn't passed word to the king or the king's mother that I escaped the extinction of the Dru Perim, though only because she fears the revenge of those faithful to me. Still, she will do anything to spite me in lesser matters. I suspect that it was not a vision that told her about you but my old acquaintance Danarius. Do you remember him? I had told you to be careful with him."

The young Druchii nodded.

"The reason why you should be especially cautious is not the fact that he is a favorite of Balneth Bale, or that he is a particularly valuable warrior; he isn't. But he is one of Belladon's paramours, and quite influential due to that. He had seen us at the gates, and recognized Niodar's armor on you. He would never leave out a chance to provide possibly useful information to the Seeress in exchange for her benevolence towards him. And since Bale consults her in all matters, she probably already knew of my petition to accept a new warrior as a noble at Naggor's court." He picked the cup up again and raised it, as if he wanted to drink to something. "Now if she interpreted the vision to your favor, the Witchlord would at least allow you to stay in Naggor as my retainer."

Makareth stared at the his liegelord, bewildered. "But she will never do so if she hates you!"

Lykaon drank another gulp and looked at his young vassal through half-closed eyes. "Persuade her to change her mind."


	15. 15 - Belladon

**Part XV: Belladon**

_Or: Second Challenge_

He followed the knight down the sloping road. It was dark in this corner of the stationary Ark; witchlight lanterns were rare, and the streets were littered with garbage. The air here stank, a smell like decaying blood and excrement, hardly concealed by the faint memory of olibanum and pipe herbs. The ceiling was so low that it would be impossible to ride here, and both Makareth and the the knight he shadowed were on foot. They were only a part of a continuous tide of slaves and Druchii scurrying down or up the loops of this subterranean corridor, and the many living bodies they had to dodge made it easy for Makareth, obscuring him from the view of his target.

For days, the young Druchii had waited for this chance. He had lingered around not far from Danarius' house, waiting for a moment when the knight would finally leave his chambers alone. The knight was a Highborn, but younger and lower in rank than Lykaon or the members of the Witchguard, and his house was located inside the Ark's black bowels, almost at ground level. Usually, Danarius came and went accompanied by his two retainers, and that was not what Makareth needed.

But today was different. Out of some reason, Danarius – and it was Danarius, Makareth had learned all his movements and gestures by heart during the days he had watched him, and was able to recognize him even though the Highborn was wearing a heavy cloak obscuring his face and covering his armor – was alone today.

Makareth entered a side arm of the corridor after Danarius; here, the crowd was consisting almost only of Druchii. Drunken laughter and angry voices distracted him from his task now; out of a corner of his eye, he saw a man in well-tailored and jewel-adorned clothes and armor of the Highborn, sinking into the arms of a Druchii dressed in a dirty brown robe and gray woolen coat – the cloak of the Highborn slowly turned red on the height of his shoulder blades.

He hurried to get out of the way so he would not be brought in connection with the murder, and trying hard not to lose the track of the knight, almost ran into a better illuminated, circular hall. Screams and growls were carried to his ears, echoing against the high ceiling of this area. When his eyes got used to the brighter light of the many braziers and enormous witchlight lamps under the ceiling, he saw that the hall was an amphitheater. Broad steps that were at the same time sitting benches, masoned from gray stones and covered with pinewood planks, led to a arena in the center. The arena was divided from the audience by thick iron bars that were placed at half a swordlength of each other, enough for a Druchii to pass through when going sideways. That meant that the bars were not mainly intended to keep the audience out – they were intended to keep something bigger in. On one side of the arena, instead of the steps there was a square building with a wide, iron-bound double door; the building was connected to the wall of the hall, and the roof was a balcony that held three rows of leather-upholstered seats and benches, on which a few better dressed Druchii sat, surrounded by servants and slaves who poured them wine and tended to their needs.

In the arena, a heavily armored Druchii sitting on a nauglir was fighting against two dogs, or at least what appeared to be dogs at first sight. Each of the dogs were at least the size of a foal, and their reddish-black bodies seemed to be only consisting of writhing muscle. When Makareth looked closer, he saw that the creatures had snouts that faintly resembled those of lizards, and their heads were surrounded by collar-like, leathery excrescence with several small horn ends. Spike protrusions adorned their spines and long tails. Makareth watched as one of the creatures opened its mouth, snarling; it had sharp fangs the length of a finger, growing without any order from its jaw. One of the things jumped up and landed on the nauglir's neck, biting into the scaly hide. With horror, Makareth watched it rip out a piece of the Cold One's back. The bleeding nauglir raged in pain, biting randomly around itself, and managed to catch a leg of the other dog-like creature in his jaws. The bone broke, and the Cold One ripped the leg off completely. The dog – if it was one at all – didn't howl or try to get away, but instead continued to fight on three legs.

The crowd cheered and many Druchii stood up to get a better look at the spectacle in the arena. Makareth tried to force himself to look away from the dog-like thing that was now ripping armor and flesh from the frame of the screaming warrior. The sword of the Druchii was stuck inside the body of the creature, directly in its ribcage, piercing it from left to right, but it hadn't slowed down in the slightest. The other dog tore at the nauglir's belly; the Cold One was growling and shaking its head in disorientation as it tried to snap at the beast under it. The warrior was losing against dogs, Makareth thought. What kind of dogs were these at all?

Suddenly, a lightning of cold, bluish-white fire hit the dog that was attacking the Druchii. The lightning bolt burned the dog to ashes, together with its victim, and jumped over to the next creature close to the target, annihilating the nauglir and finally also reaching the last dog-like creature. Its energy had waned in the process, becoming weaker with each hit, and the last strike wasn't enough to kill the dog-like thing. Its red-black hide covered in blisters and smoking craters, the three-legged thing was severely wounded, but even more angered; it growled in an infernal voice and threw itself at the audience, lacking a victim in the arena. Its bloody snout buried itself in the stomach of an elf that was not fast enough to jump out of the way. Another whip of magical energy hit the dog, bluish sparks hissing when they hit the floor or the clothes of the Druchii between the target and the one who worked the spell. This last attack almost cooked the creature. Staggering, it fell onto the bench of the amphitheater on which it had just torn apart an elf from the audience, steam rising from it; and then it disappeared with a flash of red light, leaving nothing behind.

Makareth knew by now what kind of creatures dissolved when killed or severely wounded. "Daemons," he whispered to himself.

The sorcerer that had killed the dogs, a small, whip-thin elf in an indigo robe and a black hood, walked over to an arched door in the wall of the amphitheater room. Makareth followed him with the eyes and then saw Danarius standing in a line in front of the same door.

Makareth thought about his options briefly and then stepped into the line too. The line led into a smaller room in which a Druchii woman was standing behind at a table. Piles of coins were laid out on the table, a small stone with a runic symbol in front of each of the piles. The woman was dressed in dark red studded leather, and her hair was pulled back into a braid interwoven with metal spiked leather cords; a coiled whip hung from her belt. Four huge guards in black masks and in chain mail over naked skin stood at both sides of the table, two on the left and two on the right, holding halberds and axes. Their bodies were of crude built, bulging muscles and square bones, and under the masks they wore massive steel collars. Makareth understood that the guards were slaves, probably barbarians from the north.

Danarius was now at the table. He talked to the woman, and Makareth heard him asking about the current champion.

The female Druchii laughed in a husky voice and pointed behind Danarius.

The knight turned around. The woman had obviously meant the sorcerer, and the latter now sneered and threw back the hood, revealing fine, fox-like features and sleek black hair. Waved forwards by the woman, the others in line letting him pass without objection, he joined Danarius at the table.

Makareth tried his best to understand what they were talking about.

"I am the current champion, worthy Danarius. Do you want to try out my favorite game? Participate yourself, instead of choosing an arena veteran, and bet that you win against anything I will summon?" The sorcerer spoke in a silvery, high voice, with a clear mocking undertone to it.

Danarius straightened his back, towering over the delicately built mage. "I will, but only if you also stand in the arena. With you in the safety of the audience, casting your summoning spells from afar, the game is not a fair one."

"Who wants fairness? If you are afraid of my powers, then let others place their bets and don't ask for me. I only measure my abilities with those who have enough courage." The sorcerer turned to go demonstratively, whirling around on his heels, his flowing robe like butterfly wings around his scrawny figure.

Safety of the audience, Makareth thought. But the bars would let a Druchii through, at least one as slender as Makareth – he wasn't so sure about Danarius' broad frame. The daemonic hound had jumped onto the benches, too, though. It was not as safe as it seemed. And this was the solution.

"Wait!" He called out. "I would bet that you would not be able to summon enough beasts to fight against two warriors at once! Not even if they were on foot!"

"On foot?" The young mage laughed. "This would be even easier without the nauglir! But I don't think Lord Danarius will have the guts to join you in the fight against me." He walked up to Makareth, standing less than two swordlengths from him."I am Nemian the Thirdborn, from the House Black Pegasus. And what is the name of my new challenger?"

"You can call me Makareth. I am but a retainer in the household of Lykaon the Enchanter." Makareth wrinkled his nose; the sorcerer smelled like fermented berries and carrion.

Danarius called out to them, his voice annoyed. "You want to imply that I am a coward, Nemian? You know that I am only here to finally duel with you!"

The young sorcerer tilted his head in a weirdly birdlike manner and threw a glance at the knight. "No, Danarius. Not a coward. You are just a sensible, wise... Old man. Too old and wise to not accept the fact that I, your rival, am not only preferred by our beautiful mistress, but also more proficient in battle."

Makareth almost laughed, not believing his luck. He had tried to figure out how to get Danarius to trust him in the last days, hoping to reach Belladon through him somehow. Here was a possibility, right in front of him.

The knight emptied a bag of golden coins onto the table. "So be it! Me and that boy over there – ," he pointed to Makareth, "against Nemian's beasts. On foot, no nauglir. I will bet twenty gold on me and the boy."

The sorcerer shook his head. "How funny! This will be a fine spectacle, though a short one." He walked back to the table, reached into his robes and put a leather pouch onto the table.

The woman nodded and emptied the leather bag, collecting the coins into another small pile. She placed runic tokens in front of the piles. She gave a stone with a rune identical to that in front of Danarius pile to the knight, and proceeded similarly with the sorcerer. Her voice, rasping and dark, sounded though the room. "Who wants to place bets on two warriors on foot against the monsters summoned by a single sorcerer?"

Danarius and Makareth were lead by one of the barbarian slaves into another door, down the stairs and through flights of cages and stables which contained nauglir, humans and various other animals; once, Makareth even caught a glimpse of a manticore. At last, they entered the arena through the double door in the one-story building that Makareth had seen from the amphitheater.

It was strange to look up at the rows of spectators from below, strange and unnerving. For a moment, Makareth was afraid of his own courage; and then he had no more time for it, because Nemian had begun his assault.

A winged monster twice the size of a nauglir materialized in the arena. It had a dragon-like head, and a body covered in black, metallic scales. Its wings resembled those of a bat, and its four legs had sharp, long claws. It rose up to the low ceiling, letting out a shrill cry, and then fell down on Makareth and Danarius like a hawk hunting a mouse.

"To the left!" Danarius screamed, jumping to the right himself.

Makareth threw himself to the left, just a second before the claws of the creature scratched the stone floor where he had stood. Quickly, he rolled over and darted back, drawing his sword while he moved, and stroke down on the beast's shoulder. A wing was in his way, and the monster hissed as the blade cut into it, shredding the leathery membrane and leaving it unable to rise into the air again. Raging, it attacked him on the floor, hitting him with the impact of a catapult rock and toppling him over. His world went black, his sight obscured by the scaled hide of the thing, his armor pressed onto his chest and leaving him no room to breath. Smothered by the mass of the creature, he tried in vain to reach the sword that he had lost as he hit the floor.

Then he heard Danarius jell something, and the weight on him increased. He felt his bones crushed and his tissues torn, and the nausea of suffocation took hold of him; and then the creature pushed itself up, opening its jaws in a blood-chilling scream of pain. A sword point was visible through its left eye, and acrid blood flowed on Makareth from its throat. Makareth crawled away from it, fighting for breath, sharp stings of pain piercing his ribcage.

Danarius had mounted the creature as if it was a horse or a nauglir, and instead of reigns or spurs, he used the lakelui, the longsword of the Highborn, to steer it, moving the blade that was piercing the monster's head from the back of its head to its eye.

The crowd laughed and applauded, and the Highborn waved his hand in triumph, forcing the winged beast to rear; with this last effort, the monster's strength was spent, and it collapsed under its rider, shuddering in agony.

Danarius leapt from its back gracefully and held out his arms to his sides, laughing, the creature's black blood dripping from his sword. "Did I break the rules, Nemian? But I do swear I entered the arena on foot!"

The dying monster had begun to dissolve; its body became transparent and turned into smoke. The crowd fell silent. The doors to the building stayed closed, showing that the trial was not yet over. Makareth scrambled to his feet and picked up his sword. The pain didn't subside, and this time, he knew, some of his ribs were definitely broken. He had trouble to concentrate, and he had the impression that he still wasn't able to breath properly. He had to take fast, shallow gulps of air, and it still didn't help.

"What now?" Danarius furrowed his brow. "Open the doors! We have defeated your beast, and rightfully won this fight!"

Druchii on the benches of the amphitheater began to whisper. Makareth slowly walked over to Danarius. Something was going wrong.

Then Nemian's cackling laugh sounded through the hall. "The trial is not over yet, old fool! You agreed to fight against anything I summon; and I never said that it would be only one beast." The young sorcerer raised his arms, muttering under his breath, and purple light shimmered in the middle of the area. "Let's see if you can deal with these!"

Makareth stared at the softly pulsing, glowing purple cloud that grew in size and then exploded into thousands of shining drops that scattered the floor like tiny stars. Where the cloud had been, two creatures already well-known to Makareth stood on slender, digitigrade legs ending in two claws each.

Danarius breathed in, a fierce look on his face. "Damned swindler! After I have cut your pets in pieces, you will be next!"

Back on the misty meadow, Makareth had not had the time to get a better look at the creatures. Now he had the time, or maybe he was already too weak from suffocation to force himself to look away, and the perfection of their unearthly faces stunned him. Nothing in the world could compare to them, he thought feverishly, they were both Druchii-like and serpentine, predators and at the same time radiating an eerie, animal-like innocence of those untouched by the yoke of social constraints. They were female, and yet not – their bodies were a wonderfully harmonious mixture of both genders. Their skin was a fluorescent light purple, their hair manes of thin flowing tentacles in a slightly darker color, and their arms ended in those horrible long claws resembling those of a crab or a mantis, with jagged, sharp edges traced in black stains. Daemons, he thought, daemons from the realm of the Dark Prince.

They didn't jump on Danarius and him like the ones he had met in the forest. Instead, they approached slowly, swaying their hips and whispering soft, senseless words. Makareth' instinct told him that they would only lash out in the last moment, and despite the growing weakness that the slow suffocation forced on him, he gripped the handle of his sword. Safety of the audience, he reminded himself. Safety of the audience.

And then it happened. They moved in perfect symmetry, like dancers, each attacking one of them, their claws cutting the air in a high-pitched whistling sound. Danarius parried, and the claw of the daemon slid down his blade and lashed out at his leg instead, and Makareth heard the knight cry out in pain.

Makareth didn't even try to parry. He started running in the same moment as the daemon made its strike, dodging the blow with more luck than skill. He felt his heart beat against his battered ribs, and the pain became excruciating, but he grit his teeth and staggered on, knowing that this was his only chance.

The daemon followed, just as he had expected. He fell against one of the metal bars that marked the edge of the arena, gripped it with his free hand, and pushed himself between the bars. He was slender enough to do so even without fully turning sideways, and he was thankful for that, since he knew he had not much time. He jumped up the first bench, and then the next, stepping on hands and pushing aside the bodies of appalled spectators. Screams of annoyance behind him quickly turned into sounds of agony as the daemon went after him, slaying everyone in its way. He ran to the place from where he had heard Nemian's voice last.

The young mage had stood up, raising his hands in an attempt to weave another spell, when Makareth, his pain finally numbed by the rush of fighting, reached the fourth row of the amphitheater. Nemian opened his mouth to speak.

Makareth sword dug into the stomach of the sorcerer, and the only sound that came out of Nemian's mouth was a scream of pain and terror. His face had become whiter than bleached bone. With a turn, Makareth pulled the sword out and swung it around, beheading the mage.

The audience fled, a panicking crowd gathering at the entrance to the amphitheater. Makareth couldn't believe his eyes. These pathetic sensation-seekers came here to watch a fight, a spectacle of death, yet they were afraid of just one young warrior when the fight finally came to them!

He spat at the head of the sorcerer and laughed, savoring his victory. "You didn't say that it was against the rules to kill you, did you? Your beasts are just summoned constructs that will not last, once you are dead."

Laughing had caused him a sudden pain in his lungs again, and sobered, he turned around, looking for Danarius... And saw what the others had fled from, and finally, after his own blood had ceased to beat in his temples like a drum, he heard the gruesome sound.

The daemon hadn't disappeared at the death of her conjurer. It had cut itself through dozens of Druchii. The lower three rows of this half of the room were full of dead and dying Dark elves. Their mutilated, limbless, bleeding bodies were not all silent yet, some still tried to move away, but robbed of the means to do so, they wailed and screamed in an eerie choir of shock and despair. Makareth raised his head, looking up from the horrid picture... and froze.

The creature had changed. It was now thrice as tall, towering above the arena and the benches of the amphitheater, surrounded in a bright, rose-coloured light that seemed to ooze out of its pores. It had not lost any of its beauty – even more, it had become even more mesmerizing, and at the same time hundred times as frightening. It had kept its crab claws, but gained a second pair of arms, beautiful, slender limbs of a woman, adorned with golden bracelets, intricate runic script tattoeed on the light skin. Its face was not Druchii-like anymore; it was the face of a beast, something goat-like or feline, and at the same time, it still had enough resemblance to an elven female to be disturbingly attractive. Horns protruded from its temples, myriads of golden chains woven around them.

The Keeper of Secrets looked at Makareth and stepped forwards, her mouth, or snout, becoming a smile of a seductress, and as she approached, clouds of strange perfume, reminding Makareth of the smell lingering around Lykaon, enveloped the young Druchii. Makareth felt all the desire to fight leave him; he wanted to fall onto the ground at the creature's feet and beg for her to kill him, or to bed him, or to do with him whatever she wanted.

Her hands picked him up, gently, and she looked at him, her gigantic beast-like face just a hand width from his, swirling waves and storms moving in her purple eyes. And at once he felt his bones shifting, the breakage being mended, his bruises healing. And then she put him down, and were gone, dissolved into purple smoke.

Makareth looked down into the arena; Danarius had fallen on one knee, panting, bleeding from several wounds, but alive.

Slowly, he made a step. All pain was gone.

He smiled to himself and descended into the arena again, walking to Danarius and standing three swordlengths from him. "We have defeated him, dread lord. You can go and collect your profit from this bet."

Danarius looked up, his expression a mixture of pain and relief. "I will not forget that you helped me in this."

Makareth felt his lips curl in a complacent grin. "Sometimes there are allies where you'd least expect them."

The next day, Makareth was invited to see Danarius in his residence. Karelion, one of Danarius retainers, had brought him the message.

The knight was not yet able to walk again after the demon had injured his leg, and he sat at a table made from blood oak in the main hall of his house, his damaged leg resting on a bench. He drank wine gloomily.

"Good day, dread lord." Makareth bowed his head briefly and looked around. The walls were covered by thick hangings, and there were several wolf furs on the floor; braziers lit the room in warm orange tones. Karelion and Rioneth were both there, leaning on the wall at both sides of another door that probably led to the private chambers of the house, eying the visitor with dark eyes full of mistrust.

Danarius frowned. "Don't think that I am a fool. You would not have helped me to get rid of my rival for nothing." He gestured to the seat at the table in front of him.

Makareth sat down. "I saw that the sorcerer was cheating, and thought it only fair that his own lack of rules would be his end."

"And you risked your life for justice?" The knight chuckled, amused at the thought. "I cannot believe that. No Druchii would do such a thing." He nodded to his vassals, and they retreated through the door they were standing at. "Tell me what you want from me. I don't want an alliance with you, but my honor commands me to not stay in your debt."

"Well, there is a task in which you could help me..." Makareth shifted on his seat. It was dangerous to put his cards on the table, but there was hardly time left, and he decided to take the risk. "I need an audience with Lady Belladon. And I hope you can help me with that."

He had gambled, and he had won.

And now he was standing at the top of the stairs leading into the spire where Belladon used to receive visitors, and his heart was beating so fast that he feared it would stop its service any second from working overdue. He hadn't believed it would be so easy. Danarius held his word – only a week had passed, and he was summoned to the Seeress.

He took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.

The Seeress was sitting at a mirror with her back to him, glowing in the daylight that fell through the high windows of the spire. Slowly, she rose to her feet and turned around, and Makaerth felt his heart beat even faster, though he had thought this would not be possible.

She was magnificent. Her face was of cruel and flawless beauty, with a finely chiseled nose and cheekbones, huge gray eyes and full, blood-red lips. She wore spiked vambraces and high boots adorned with metal studs, and a corsage of black leather and golden plates that left only little to imagination. A mane of snow-white hair flowed around her lush shape, and her fair skin was not marble-white, but with a delicate, pale rosy tint. If not for the wisdom and resoluteness in her eyes, she could have been a young girl, fresh and pure like a newly forged blade.

"Speak." Her voice was clear and high.

"Lady Belladon..." He fell onto one knee. "I have come to you to ask you to revise the decision considering my stay here."

She sat down on the bench again, this time with her back to the mirror. "And what leads you to the assumption that I would change my mind?"

"If we speak about what I wish, then I will tell you that my wish is to serve Naggor and the Witchlord, my lady. I know that in these times of feud Naggor needs every warrior, and I am ready to devote all my strength and faith to the fight against the Witchlord's enemies. But if we were to speak about what is necessary, then I must say that my wishes are not important. I know that you have seen sinister events that could one day be part of my fate." He paused, watching her attentively. "And I believe you are the only one who could prevent the disaster. Only you are powerful and clairvoyant enough to see it come, and to tell the Druchii to take arms against it. Only you have the ability to do so."

Belladon laughed. "You are a but a child. Do you think you can coax and flatter me into giving in and letting you stay? What advantage would I have from that?"

He remained calm. "You would have my absolute loyalty; though I don't think that you would consider it a thing of great value, given that your wisdom, beauty and influence entice many a warrior. But as I said, I wish to serve Naggor; even more, I wish to serve Naggaroth. And if my destiny is to unfold into the destruction of Naggaroth' capital, and maybe of the whole kingdom, then I would wish to remain close to you."

She raised one brow. "Why that?"

"Only to you the Orb reveals its secrets. If I stay here, you will be cautious of my presence, and remember the visions show to you. The Orb of Malkin will reply to your unspoken questions. And it will be you who can warn the Witchking in time, and this might turn the course of the events." He bowed his head. " If you send me away, you will forget me. You would not ask your holy artifact about me, and you would not be the one to warn the Witchking... Not the one who could prevent the fall of our kingdom."

"You think so? I could just call the guards and order them to skin you alive and then throw you out of the tower window. Then you wouldn't be a danger to Naggaroth anymore, would you?" She crossed her legs, leaning back on the dressing table.

"Or not the one who would fight against the army of the beasts summoned from the realms of horror. Great Balneth Bale has told my lord of your visions; I was there and heard it all. When I came here, I came with the intention to give my life into your hands. I live only for Naggaroth; and you are one of those few who watch over our kingdom's fate. If your prophetic powers tell you that my death is the solution, then call your guards, Lady Belladon." He leaned forwards slightly, looking at her with half-closed eyes. "Though if you want me to die, my lady, I would wish that you would be the one to kill me." With these words, he cast down his eyes and lowered his head in a gesture of humility.

She laughed again, this time more heartily. "You are a clever boy. But if I have to stay cautious about your fate to prevent the catastrophe... What makes you think I wouldn't forget you if you stay here as well?"

He heard her light steps on the stone floor, and smiled. "Maybe I can make sure you won't forget me, my lady." He raised his head, still smiling, and saw Belladon standing before him, a curious look on her face. The Keeper of Secrets whispered in the shadows of his mind, and he reached out for the Seeress' hand and lead it to his lips, placing a kiss on the middle of her palm.


	16. 16 - Long Live the Witchlord

**Part XVI: Long Live the Witchlord**

_Or: The Prize Obtained  
_

Makareth sat in his study, turning pages of the book on strategy. Lykaon wanted him to learn more about regiment leadership, saying that it was not enough to know how to fight in a group of Cold One Knights, and that Makareth would sooner or later advance in society and one day find himself in the position to lead an army. It was a pleasant thought, and he gave his best, but reading the endless sermons on regiment formations and attack tactics was tiring, especially since there were not many illustrations in the books that the lord had given him.

He sighed, left the book open on the table and walked over to the vellum map of Ulthuan which he had laid out on the floor. The tiny lead and wooden figures of warriors, horses, nauglir and ships were much more fun to practice with. He moved the metal manikin depicting an Asur spearman, the symbol for a regiment of the enemy, along the map where the Griffin Gate on Ulthuan was drawn, and then positioned the figures depicting a crossbow wielding Druchii and a corsair with two swords towards it, placing the ranged-weapons-user regiment on a position marked as elevated, on the slope of a mountain, and the corsair regiment in frontal attack to the Asur. Then he took a tiny depiction of a nauglir and paused, trying to remember where the regiment was placed in that battle he was reading about. It has escaped his memory again. His head was spinning, and he put the figure down.

The battle he was trying to reconstruct was not a successful one for the Druchii anyway, he thought, collecting the miniature regiment symbols into an ebony case. He hung the map back on the wall where he had taken it from and closed the book. The goblet, half full with wine, standing on the table, left over from yesterday's meal, lured him to drink, but he was reluctant to do so. His habits of drinking had not changed since the times he had spend with Laggoran, and he knew that if he would start, he wouldn't stop till he passed out; and it had been several weeks since Belladon had last demanded to see him, meaning the chance was not bad that she would do so tonight. He had come to yearn the meetings; originally he had only tried to gain her favor because he wanted to stay in Naggor, but by now he was counting the days till the moment she would call for him again.

He walked over to his bedroom and opened the window for a possible messenger, one of the little winged lizards trained to fly from tower to tower. It was snowing outside, the eternal ice plane and the glaciers into which the Ark was frozen once again being covered by a new sheet of white that erased the traces of those who came and went through the gate. The days have become short, and another long winter had begun. It was his twelfth winter in Naggor.

There had been no more rituals after they had come here. The almost painful boredom and the restless desire for new experiences and sensations that had haunted him after the events in Karond Kar had settled into more bearable, simple wishes for the occasional excitement of a fight and for the caresses of the lady whose protectorate he had sought.

But he had had more than enough chances to fight. He liked to ride out with Lykaon and the lord's other retainers and allies to hunt down warrior bands from Hag Graef that dared to come too far into the Naggorite territory, and for the times without such a journey, he had taken on the habit to fight in the arena where he had defeated Nemian, beheading slaves from nauglir back or slaying monsters. After the spectacular death of the former champion by his hand, he had gained popularity. They called him Makareth the Bastard Knight, as the rumors of him being a distant relative of Lykaon the Enchanter that grew up as a commoner had already made the rounds. It was an absurd and slightly insulting name, but the crowd shouted salutes and cheered when he rode into the arena on Karn's back, and the intoxicating pleasure of a victory always outweighed his anger at their insolence. Betting on himself, he had already made a small fortune. Of course, he couldn't do this too often – Nemian's family thirsted for his blood, and more than one time he had to defend himself against murderers bought by their gold in the dark corridors of the Ark's subterranean quarters.

There had been another quarrel between Lykaon and Hadranir; the latter behaved strangely again, seeking for quench the burning thirst that drove him to insanity. After Hadranir had painted the walls of his rooms with brightly colored scenes of debauchery, walked around dressed in a traditional garb of a Sorceress, a scanty silken dress, lost everything of his share from the raid in a gamble and at last killed Lykaon's favorite slave, the Asur woman with the flower tattoos, in a torture session that went too far, Lykaon sent him away to the service at a Watchtower, saying he needed something more challenging to occupy himself with. The lord had asked Makareth to go with his insane nephew, to watch out in case Hadranir felt insulted enough to try and forge an alliance of treason against Lykaon.

And so Makareth had spent two years out of the twelve serving at one of the Watchtowers together with Hadranir, defending the borders of the kingdom against barbarian hordes and using the possibility to further improve his skills in fighting from nauglir back. Despite still not being a noble, he had been given a set of two swords, the traditional number for a Highborn, by Lykaon, before they departed from Naggor. He had asked Hadranir to teach him fighting with two weapons in their scarce free time, and despite the mutual antipathy between them, the situation forced them to work together, and the beautiful madman agreed. In exchange for that, Makareth never told the other Druchii at the Watchtower the truth about those five warriors that had disappeared during their stay, though he knew that every single one of them had followed the lord's nephew into the wilderness for a ride, seduced by Hadranir's beauty and flattering words. He didn't know what Hadranir had done with them, and he didn't want to know.

Since he had the swords, everybody he met treated him as if he was a member of House Kythonarh – this, he learned, was the actual name of the ancient noble house to which Lykaon and Hadranir, as well as the latter's dead brother Niodar, had belonged – and not a simple retainer. It filled his heart with joy, and he spent many evenings looking at the swords, sharpening and polishing their blades, losing himself in the snake-like ornaments of the hilts and guards.

The longsword was adorned with three runic signs in Tar-Eltharin – one of them was _dhar_, "dark magic", and the other _oriour,_ meaning_ "_blood", the third, finally, was only a phonetic symbol, the one for the letter"N"_. _The letters were engraved on a plate of gold embedded into the hilt, a line that formed a circle connecting them; though the both full runes were placed above the letter, it was impossible to know which way the writing should be read. After some thinking he decided that this had probably been the birth sword of Niodar – like in ancient Nagarythe, Naggorites have kept the tradition to forge a sword for every newborn son of a noble. The runes were probably a mystified representation of the dead noble's name – N-_Or_-io-_or_-D-_h_-ar. Makareth liked the idea that everything that the traitor had now belonged to him; if only he could also get his title, he would be even more content.

Makareth picked up the sword from the weapon stand and watched the reflections the blade cast on the walls of his chamber, turning the weapon in the light of the fireplace. It was beautiful. For some moments, he enjoyed the sight, and then put it back, walking over to his bed and stretching out on it. He was not tired – at least not physically – but the he had no wish to continue his studies. If Belladon would just send him a message.

He closed his eyes. In the last years, he had learned again to collect and enjoy his memories, and he summoned one of his new favorite ones.

She had turned away, pulling her hand from his. "Follow me." He remembered her voice, it had turned a tone darker, softer. She lead him through a door, into another room filled with winter daylight that shone through the high windows of her tower, and she sat on the narrow bed covered with midnight silk, waiting for him to approach.

He smiled, recalling the excitement and the feeling of victory that had taken hold of him. He had knelt before her, his hands sliding over the metal adorned high boots and the light skin of her thighs above, and she had woven her fingers into his hair, leaning down to kiss him. The kiss burned on his lips, taking his breath. She had closed her eyes, but he didn't dare to – how could he let a sight of such overwhelming beauty escape him? He had watched her eyelids flutter as his hand had danced on her back, undoing the closures of the leather and plate bodice, their kiss still lasting, her legs on both sides of his waist, her body arching towards him. Her skin was hot when he freed her from the garment, and he broke the kiss to taste it, her ample breasts, her flat stomach, and she tore at his hair again, with a short moan of impatience, and pushed his head down, his face between her legs. "Now show me," she whispered coarsely, "that you can make me remember you."

Lying on his bed alone now, he thought of how she tasted, a bit like sea salt and herbs and unripe apples, and how she had wound her legs around his neck, writhing in delight, letting go of that mask of superiority and succumbing to him, and felt a rush of excitement. He wished he was with her now. He would throw her on that narrow bed of hers and hold her wrists in his hands while he would pleasure her with his tongue, and then he would take her, her legs draped on his shoulders, as hard and mercilessly as if she was just one of his slaves, exactly the way that she liked it most. He bit his lip in anticipation, his hand snaking itself under his robes, and imagining Belladon screaming under him in lust, he closed his eyes and gave in to the need the memory had awakened in him.

He woke up in the middle of the night. Sudden fear, coiling around his heart like a snake, made him jump up in bed. The window shutters, still open, creaked in the cold midwinter wind. The messenger had not appeared. From the dark corners of his mind, a voice that had been his steady companion in the last years whispered. Now, it said, you have to go to her now.

Frantically, he ran out of his room, only stopping to grab the belts with his scabbards and the long sword from the weapon stand. He rushed down the stairs of Lykaon's tower, the dark foreboding of something terrible clutching his heart in its cold grip.

There was no bridge connecting the towers of Lykaon and the Seeress, and he had to sprint through the corridors and dark roads of the inner Ark to reach the entrance to the main palace, where the Witchlord and his guard as well as Belladon had their chambers. The guards of the palace moved in, crossing their halberds in front of him.

"I need to talk to lady Belladon!" He gasped, fighting for breath.

One of the guards looked at him warily. "You have no invitation."

Makareth grit his teeth. "Please, at least tell her of my plea! Something horrible will happen! She must not be alone now!" He looked around, realizing that he sounded either like a fool or highly suspicious. The place before the entrance to the palace was empty. At least there were no other witnesses of his weird behavior.

The guards laughed. He was lucky – they seemingly thought him a fool. The guard who had spoken to him shook his head. "You have to wait till tomorrow morning. I will let her servants bring her a message; but I can tell you that she probably won't see you. Lady Belladon's time is scarce, and she usually doesn't welcome visitors that she didn't call for."

The other guard sighed. "Especially now that the Witchlord seems worried about something. She is probably spending all of her time reading the Orb."

"Your tongue is your biggest traitor, Farlen." The first guard cast his companion a grim look. "Don't speak of things you understand nothing of."

Farlen opened his mouth to say something – and sunk to the floor, a bolt piercing his head from one pointed ear to the other.

The other guard spun around, but a shadowy figure jumped from the shadows of the entrance and embraced him from behind, slicing his throat with a dagger.

Makareth howled and drew his sword, attacking the murderer. The other man let the crossbow and dagger fall, drawing his sword so quickly that his limbs became a blur, and parried. The screeching of metal against metal was a scream as sparks flew between the two blades, and for a moment Makareth saw the other Druchii's eyes – they were soulless, empty like the those of a corpse. The stranger snarled, pushing his sword against Makareth, and the black blade sang a song of terror against the silversteel of dead Niodar's longsword. Then the boot of the other man suddenly came up and kicked Makareth into the stomach, sending him flying down the steps of the tower's entrance.

Makareth' head, not protected by a helmet, hit the stone floor, and darkness enveloped him.

He woke up to a terrible headache, his hand still clutching the sword's hilt. He was still lying on the ground, and he heard voices shouting and speaking; the floor shook with vibrations of feet. Slowly, he turned onto his side and reached out with his free hand to touch the back of his head. His fingers felt something sticky in his hair. He looked at them and saw them covered in red.

Armed Druchii were at the entrance of the palace, one of them examining the corpse of one of the guards. Seeing that Makareth moved, one of the men pointed at him. "Hey, that one is not dead!"

Another one of them walked over to Makareth. "This one is not a guard, neither. Who are..." His eyes widened as he recognized the crest of the Kythonarh family on the khaitan and the sword belt. "Excuse me lord, I thought you were one of the intruders."

Makareth sat up. "I have seen him. The intruder." He retched, his sense of balance confused by the hammering pain in his head.

The Druchii in armor shouted to his companions. "Hey, the lord here has witnessed the murder of these guards! He might know who it was who stole the Orb of Malkin!"

The others turned their heads towards him, faces mostly obscured by the face guards. Stole the Orb of Malkin, Makareth thought, he stole the Orb... But that would mean...

The man that has been examining the corpse stood up, and the green shine of the witchlight lanterns on the subterranean street shone on the archaic black armor of the Witchguard. "Then tell us who it was, or at least describe him."

Makareth swallowed. He had seen the face of the murderer; and he had recognized him. Of course he did – everybody who had lived in Hag Graef would have recognized him. He looked up at the man from the Wicthguard and said, his voice firm despite the fear that now joined the pain under his skull: "It was Malus Darkblade."

He stood at the window of his bedroom and watched the black dragon rise into the clouded heaven of the winter dawn, carrying Balneth Bale on its shoulders; saw the Wicthguard follow him on the winged beasts summoned by them; they were going to take bloody revenge on the man who dared to steal the Orb of Malkin. The beating of black wings and the infernal roar of the dragon sent more pain stings through his head.

But it was merely physical pain; the injury wasn't even bad. Ruathac had looked into his pupils, cleaned the wound on the back of his head with spirits, and wound a length of linen around his brow like a headband, saying that he shouldn't move too much in the next days. Makareth could handle the pain.

Much worse was the anger and the sadness that gripped him when he reminded himself that the little messenger lizard would never come. There would be no more meetings with Belladon, never again. To steal the Orb of Malkin, the accursed Darkblade had slain the Seeress.

Days passed, and Balneth Bale didn't come back. The palace was deserted, most of the Witchguard gone with him. Lykaon seemed not really troubled by the events – even more, Belladon's death and Balneth Bale's departure with most of the Witchguard promised an interesting turn in the politics of Naggor, and a possible gain of status for Lykaon. And should Balneth Bale return victorious, without Belladon's clairvoyant help he would have to seek the assistance of other sorcerers of the frozen Ark more than before, and this, too, would be very much to Lykaon's taste, as he hinted to his liegemen.

One month later, the citizens of the Ark celebrated. Every tavern, Flesh House and gambling pit gave out free wine, slaves were tortured and executed publicly for the Bloodhanded God and for the amusement of the masses. The Witchlord was exceptionally generous on this day. "Long live the Witchlord!" was heard in the subterranean corridors and halls of Naggor.

The Highborn and nobles were summoned into the hall of the Witchlord, more than hundred people standing there. Most were lower nobles and their retainers, as most of the Highborn were killed during the war with Hag Graef twelve years ago, and at least a dozen of them had been in the Wicthguard which had left with Balneth Bale; none of them seemed to have returned. Makareth saw the remaining members of the Witchguard standing between the winged statues; and more men were now there, in armor newer and more elegant, younger Druchii from the lower-ranking houses, advanced to the status of the Witchguard. Looking more closely, he saw that there were also three new Highborn among them that hadn't been in the Witchguard previously. Makareth recognized one of them as Danarius.

The Witchlord sat on his throne, overshadowed by the arch, and each of the nobles stepped forwards, one at a time, knelt at the foot of the marble stairs and swore an oath. Their retainers stayed back, and when it was Lykaon's turn, Makareth didn't hear what the lord said. Hadranir went next, while Lykaon was still walking back to the place where Makareth stood.

"You are next." Lykaon pushed him towards the throne while Hadranir was reciting his oath.

"My lord?" Makareth looked at Lykaon with astonishment. "Why? I am not a noble!"

The lord grinned his shark smile and nodded towards the podium under the arch. "Just go and plead loyalty to the Witchlord."

Makareth stumbled forwards. He fell on one knee, more than sinking onto it intentionally, and instead of bowing his head, he looked up into the shadows and saw the face of the Witchlord. The Druchii on the throne wore no helmet, his black hair falling onto his shoulders, and his scarred face wore an expression of content. The Witchlord was not Balneth Bale.

The young Druchii felt his heart race, and he knew he had to act quickly unless he wanted to embarrass himself in front of the whole nobility of the frozen Ark. "I swear allegiance to you, Witchlord!" It was not a very creative oath, but he was too surprised to think of something more poetic.

The new ruler of Naggor grinned. He reached out with his hand, holding it towards Makareth. "I, Kernu Kara, Witchlord of the Black Ark of Naggor, accept your oath! Stand up and return to your family, Makareth of Kythonarh!"

Makareth bowed to the ground, and then walked back to Lykaon, slowly and stunned by the realization of what just happened. Lower-ranking nobles watched him pass by, their glances stinging like jealous daggers.

The Dreadlord's eyes burned green with amusement and mischief. "A good moment to promote future loyal vassals in one's new court, isn't it?" he whispered. His hand rose to the young Druchii's neck, a claw of one finger stroking Makareth' skin above the hadrilkar, in Lykaon's typical gesture of affection. "Welcome to my household, young Highborn."

Kernu Kara stood up and stepped onto the top of the black marble stairs. "My vassals! Time has come to restore the proper order! We will show Hag Graef that sending spies, stealing artifacts and weaving a net of lies is not how a Black Ark leads a war!"

Cheers rose from the nobles.

The new Witchlord smiled. "Very soon, we will march against Hag Graef again. And this time, we will win! Now prepare yourselves, nobles of Naggor, and wait for my call!"

And the assembled court greeted their new lord, shouting as one. "Long live Witchlord Kernu Kara! Long live the Witchlord!"


	17. 17 - Family Affairs

**Part XVII: Family Affairs**

_Or: Traveling Again_

"How did you do it, my lord?" Makareth still couldn't believe what had happened a few hours ago.

Lykaon sat at his table, dressed in leather and chain mail, and watched two slaves, the Asur male who, now that the female with the flower tattoos was dead, was the eldest slave of the household, and a newly bought human girl, folding clothes and packing supplies for a journey. "Well, it was easy. I just told Kernu Kara that you are my illegitimate son and that I have waited for the right moment to introduce you."

Makareth' coughed, choking on his own breath. He stood at the window, few steps from Lykaon. His eyes darted to the slaves, and then back to Lykaon. "But... the tradition of Naggor..."

The lord laughed and waved his hand at the slaves, making it clear to them that they were to leave them alone. The Asur and the human bowed and retreated. Lykaon waited for them to disappear, and then spoke again. "You are not considered the firstborn, of course, otherwise I would have to sacrifice you due to the tradition of Naggor. Kernu Kara doesn't know my true age, and he assumes that I have had children before." He winked. "And just in case you want to try and assassinate me – before you can become my heir, it would be Hadranir's turn, since he is the legitimate child of my younger brother, and you are only counted as bastard offspring. So you might want to kill him first."

"I would never even think of turning against you, my lord!" Makareth dropped to his knees. "How can I thank you? Introducing me as your son... This is truly more than I could expect!"

"Though it does please me that you feel the need to throw yourself on your knees before me, it would be enough if you just continued serving me like you did before, foolish child." Lykaon shook his head. "You have proved yourself as a loyal servant, and as a cunning diplomat. Not to speak of the fact that you are a talented warrior. But don't forget that I can still destroy your life the moment I would wish to." His green eyes narrowed for a moment, but then a playful smile lighted his face again, and he continued. "The war with Hag Graef will not begin for the next two years, by the way. I have spoken to Kernu Kara; he plans to win the help of the Temple of Khaine for this battle first. And with that, I mean the main Temple – that in Ghrond. He has sent messengers to Hellebron, asking her for patronage, and wants to assign the local shrine of Khaine more power. Soon, the Ark of Naggor will turn from the secret haven for sorcerers into a Khainite territory."

"The Temple of Khaine? But wouldn't that mean danger for you? I thought the Temple has something against you..."

"No, not the main Temple in Ghrond. From what I learned from Niodar before his death, it was the Hag of the Temple in Hag Graef with whom he allied. Despite the fact that they all worship the Bloodhanded God, they are not as united as one might think. All the High Priestesses compete with each other, and they don't share their political secrets with anyone." Lykaon walked over to the saddle bags that the slaves had packed and looked through them; content with the result, he stood up and took two books from one of the book cases, putting them into one of the bags. "But even with Hellebron being not my enemy, I don't like this new development of events. The Temple of Khaine doesn't accept sorcerers, and they hate those who dare to follow other gods than the Lord of Murder. It is time that we leave."

Makareth looked at the lord, confused. "Leave?"

Lykaon grinned. "I will go to Karond Kar. I have sought the permission to be accepted into Drachau Rakarth' court, and bought an estate on the island twelve years ago when we were there. I have loyal retainers that wait for me in Karond Kar. Most of my possessions and funds have already been transported there in the last years – maybe you have wondered why my room here is so empty. I have planned this move a long time ago. I have more than enough resources in gold to allow Sameira to gain influence, with the best stock of beasts and the best crew of beastmasters, and I hope that she will finally understand that it is best for her to marry me."

"Will you take Hadranir and Ruathac with you? And... And what should I do, lord? Will you take me with you?" The young Druchii stepped from one foot onto the other.

"As my son, you could also stay here and keep my home here in order. I would give it to you. As you are no sorcerer, and I know that you feel your blood burn for Khaine when you fight – ha, you even go to this dirty arena if you have been idle for too long –, you wouldn't have to fear the Witch Elves that will soon dance their bloody dances in the corridors of Naggor. But I've got a bad feeling about this war against Hag Graef that will sooner or later occur – and I wouldn't advise you to stay. Ruathac is useful to me, and I will not leave him here. And Hadranir... I have to keep an eye on him. He is a disgrace for my family." Lykaon furrowed his brow and walked over to the armor stand. "Help me with my armor."

Makareth helped the lord putting on the purple and black plate. His fingers, shaking from excitement at the thought of such a sudden change of options, had trouble closing the buckles. "I feel honored that you would trust me with your tower here, my lord." He stepped back and listened to the inner voice that had been there for the last twelve years, but it stayed silent.

"Then you can stay here. I will be going tonight; tell the slaves to bring my saddle bags to the stables, and kick Hadranir out of his bed for me." Lykaon threw a side glance at Makareth and walked to the door, leaving the young Druchii standing in the middle of the lord's bedroom.

There were no guards at the doors to Hadranir's chambers. Makareth stepped through the open door and stared at the walls in disbelief. Hadranir hadn't been lazy – the life-sized scenes full of Druchii and strange creatures with too many limbs or snake-like bodies, depicted in various poses of copulation and torture, have become more numerous, newer pictures painted over the older ones. The images covered all the walls as well as the floor and the ceiling of the visitor room; Makareth felt his boot glued to the stone under his feet by a cover of fresh paint. Disturbed by the hundreds of eyes and open mouths of the drawn figures, he stalked with heron-like steps towards the door to Hadranir's bedroom. More depraved scenes upon all surfaces of the room and a sharp smell of copper and urine greeted him.

The lord's nephew was lying naked upon his bed, on top of two bloodied bodies of male Druchii, covered in clotted blood, his face in a puddle of reddish vomit on the stomach of one of the corpses. Makareth looked closer and saw that there were pieces of armor and clothing scattered around the bed, and two halberds leaning on a wall. One of the corpses was missing several limbs and the genitals, and the other's throat seemed ripped out by some predatory animal. He did it again, Makareth though in disgust, and this time, in his own home.

He gripped the bony shoulder of the peacefully breathing elf. "Wake up, you abomination."

Hadranir opened one purple eye and frowned. "Get lost, you fake."

Makareth growled. "What are you thinking, killing your own guards in the lord's tower?"

The insane Druchii stretched luxuriously, licking the blood and vomit from his lips. "They were only commoners. No one is going to miss them."

"Commoners?" Discipline, he thought. Patience. His mantra that he had used so often that it hardly worked anymore.

"Yes, exactly! Commoners like you, false cousin." Hadranir sat up and scratched his stomach, rubbing dried blood from his skin. "No reason to look at me like a hungry nauglir," he added in his singsong voice, "it is not like they were your family or something. Really, as my – bastard, or should I say impostor? – cousin, you should rather be on my side."

Makareth grit his teeth and looked away. "Just get dressed and pack your things. Lord Lykaon wants you to accompany him to Karond Kar."

Hadranir jumped up and walked, dancing as always, to the three big chests standing next to the armor stand. He opened one lid after the other, throwing robes, jewelry and differently colored khaitans out. "Why doesn't he tell me himself? Am I now downgraded to second best? Are you his new favorite?" His melodic voice didn't hide the jealousy.

"Maybe he just wanted to give you the chance to escape his fury. He probably suspects that I haven't told him – and the rest of the world – about everything you have done lately." The young Druchii tried to look away from the bloody mess between the legs of one of the corpses, but it didn't work. The secret voice in his head had began whispering again. He shuddered. "I am going. Just pack your things, or call for some slaves to do it... Wait, no, don't call for any slaves, just do it yourself. I am going to tell the lord that you'll be ready in half an hour." He ran out of Hadranir's chambers, closing the doors behind him.

On the way to the spire which he inhabited, he stopped, staring at the stairs in front of him. The voice was getting louder. Go with them, it said, go with them. If you stay here, you will die as a slave. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and took two steps of the stairs at once.

In his chambers, he paced the room, trying to fight off the nagging thoughts. He had just got what he wanted, a title, and now he could have an estate all for himself... He was already famous for his arena fights, and Kernu Kara would certainly be glad to have another loyal vassal. He had the status of a Highborn, and not only that, with Lykaon going to Karond Kar, Makareth would become the head of House Kythonarh in Naggor. It was better than anything he dreamed of! Why was he being such a fool, listening to sinister words of something that didn't exist? Was he becoming a madman like Hadranir?

Finally, he went into the study and drew a random book from one of the cases. He needed to distract himself. He looked at the cover of the book. It was bound in Asur hide. The Druhast runes read "Birth of Naggaroth". He opened it on a random page and read aloud, trying to hush the eerie voice in his mind.

"And the Witchking forbid males to learn sorcery..."

The book fell out of his hands, hitting the floor with a thump and closing. Sorcery! That was it. If he stayed here, he would never learn to work magic. Naggor would soon become another home for the Temple of Khaine, and its dubious fame as the city of sorcerers would fade into oblivion. But Lykaon – Lykaon could still teach him. That was a simple explanation for the voice – it was simply his own intuition. He had always been ambitious, and it was just logical not to stop at what he had already achieved.

He dragged out the saddlebags out of the chest in his bedroom, stuffed clothing, an empty wine skin, a comb and the book about strategy that he didn't finish reading yet into them, and called for a slave to help him with his armor.

The blond Asur male, the head slave of the household, appeared, in a woolen cape above leather pants and linen tunic. He even wore boots. It seemed that Lykaon planned to take all his prized possessions with him.

Makareth looked at the slave. He was very handsome; waist-long golden hair, slender yet muscular build, and perfect face with high cheekbones; all the slaves in Lykaon's household were always of exquisite beauty. Usually, the Asur had word much less clothing, and Makareth knew that the slave's back, thighs and shoulders were covered by thousands of whip scars, but his face was untouched save for the thick golden ring that went through the septum of his straight nose. This was the only elf left among the lord's slaves, and that meant that he'd be probably the next victim of Hadranir's insatiable desires, provided that Lykaon wouldn't take any Druchii from outside the household with him. Makareth knew that Lykaon would certainly not be happy if Hadranir continued expending slaves and guards at this rate. Somehow, he had to ensure that Hadranir didn't get his hands on this one. It would be the only way to prevent a new conflict, and a possible new exile to some Watchtower to which he would have to accompany the lord's crazy nephew. While he thought about it, it occurred to him that he never asked for the Asur's name. A weird thought, probably caused by the shock of the suddenly pending departure and the stress that Hadranir's misbehavior put on him. Or maybe it were the words that the voice in his head had whispered that evoked sudden empathy for the slave in him.

The Asur waited patiently, his head lowered. After several minutes of silence, he cleared his throat. "Does the lord wish this slave to do something?" His voice was clear and rather low-pitched, other than Makareth had expected; and he realized that he had never heard the Asur's voice before.

"What is your name?"

The Asur looked up, startled. His eyes were of an intense, dark blue. "The name of this slave was Ayandil when he was still free; but he is mostly just called 'slave' now."

Makareth sighed. "Ayandil... Stay away from lord Hadranir for your own sake, will you? It is my order for you. Never be alone with him." He pointed at the armor stand, and the Asur hurried to help him put on the silver steel breastplate.

Ayandil stayed standing behind him after he had closed the belts. He was taller than Makareth, and the young Druchii felt warm breath on the point of his left ear, when the slave whispered, softly: "This slave won't be allowed to disobey lord Hadranir. Unless you ask master if Ayandil can become your personal slave, generous lord. Master is very fond of his son, he won't refuse. This slave will be endlessly thankful..." The whisper had grown darker, with a seductive note to it.

With a snarl of irritation, Makareth darted away from the Asur, turning around. "Don't become insolent, stupid thing!" He glowered at the blond elf. "This familiarity won't stay unpunished!"

The Asur shivered and hunched down, his hand rising to the steel collar around his neck. "Forgive this slave, lord! It had forgotten its place!"

Makareth breathed in and out, trying to calm down. "Bring the saddlebags to the stables."

He put on his cloak and girded himself with his sword belts. He took a moment to look at the longsword once more. The golden runes shone in the dimming light of the dying fire, and for the first time it appeared strange to him that the runes were written in Tar-Eltharin, and not Druhir. To be precise, the _dhar_ rune was not even an elven one...

He didn't have much time to think about it. Lykaon appeared on the doorway, grinning. "My slave told me that you are going with me."

Makareth sheathed the sword. "Yes, my lord. If you allow me to, I would prefer to go with you."

"A wise decision." Lykaon's glowing green eyes looked into Makareth', and then the lord raised one eyebrow. "What is it about you wanting Ayandil for yourself?"

The young Druchii felt all color leave his cheeks. "I... I never said that..." He felt anger rising in him. "This brazen slave! Did he tell you that?"

The lord smiled, amused by Makareth' reaction. "I've had Ayandil since he was a youth, and he is two hundred now; he is very useful and clever, just like his mother was." Lykaon's fiery eyes darkened for a moment at the memory of his favorite slave's death. "He does think somewhat too high of himself, and needs a proper treatment to lose his temperament from time to time, but otherwise, he is a good slave – loyal and obedient.. If you want, you can punish him yourself. Of course, you can have him, if what he said is true."

Makareth looked up, confused. "What did he say?"

"That you prefer Asur slaves to humans – excellent choice, I must admit – , and that such a slave would be a nice gift for you if I wanted to show you my appreciation of your loyalty."

The young Druchii bit his lower lip. "Can I have a girl instead? An Asur girl?"

Lykaon laughed, turning away. "In Karond Kar, you can. It is the city of the slave markets, after all."

The journey was tiresome. Lykaon rode first, Hadranir at his side, both on Cold Ones, and Makareth had no possibility to talk with anybody, since his place was at the end of the column with Ruathac. The Shade was as communicative as always, "yes" or "no" being all he said if asked something. The horse wagon transporting the baggage and the slaves was in the middle, steered, to Makareth astonishment, by the Asur slave. Between the wagon and the Cold One riders were the warriors that Lykaon had taken with him after all, two on each end, riding on horses. Lykaon had introduced them as loyal retainers from Naggor that he had had for many years, but they were none of the guards that had worked for the House Kythonarh, and Makareth had never seen any of them before. He suspected that they were members of the Atharti Cult that Lykaon and Hadranir belonged to.

Karn was calm, despite the horses in front of him, since they had taken enough meat for the nauglir with them; with the cold weather, it didn't decay too fast. But Makareth was still nervous. The voice hadn't talked to him again, but from time to time, something made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, as if someone, or something, was following them.

They needed five days to reach the Slaver's road. Makareth was shocked how slow travel with a wagon and horses was – even though a horse could run faster than a Cold One in a sprint, the horses had definitely less stamina and needed more time for resting. After three more days on the road, they had to feed the nauglir once to keep them from biting at the horses, earlier than planned. At this rate, their supplies of meat for the lizards wouldn't last for long. They took a rest at a deserted way station fort and let the nauglir free to hunt, hoping it will give them some peace for the next days.

"We should let them hunt for the two or three days, and maybe hunt ourselves to take more meat with us!" Hadranir was leaning on the wall, tapping his foot on the floor to the rhythm in his mind, his unceasing movement making the elven teeth woven into his hair jingle against his armor. The number of the macabre adornments in his possession had increased over time, and he didn't braid in bones other than teeth anymore. "Additionally, staying here for a couple of days means spending some relaxing time under a roof and with a fireplace." His eyes darted to the Asur slave who just came in from the stables where he had taken care of the horses.

Ayandil lowered his head and walked over to the crouching group of human slaves.

"We should let them hunt for the two or three days, and maybe hunt ourselves to take more meat with us!" Hadranir was leaning on the wall, tapping his foot on the floor to the rhythm in his mind, his unceasing movement making the elven teeth woven into his hair jingle against his armor. The number of the macabre adornments in his possession had increased over time, and he didn't braid in other bones anymore. "Additionally, staying here for a couple of days means spending some relaxing time under a roof and with a fireplace." His eyes darted to the Asur slave who just came in from the stables where he had taken care of the horses.

Ayandil lowered his head and walked over to the crouching group of human slaves.

Ruathac breathed out smoke. "We still have a journey before us that is at least five times as long. I agree that we should go hunting ourselves to speed up the process; but I would prefer us not to stay here for too long. Maybe we could just travel on and hope that we find people ready to sell us some supplies, after all, this is the Slaver's road."

"Sell us some supplies? Did I just hear something about trade from the mouth of a Shade?" Hadranir laughed, his silvery voice echoing eerily under the dark roof of the fort. "You probably wanted to say some travelers that we can butcher and feed to the nauglir, didn't you?"

Lykaon watched the conversation quietly but said nothing. Makareth looked at him and then back to the other liegemen, and asked himself what the best strategy would be. If they listened to Ruathac, they would risk the nauglir becoming too hungry and aggressive which meant maybe losing a horse or two; if they followed Hadranir's advice, they would probably have sated and content Cold Ones and keep all the horses – but instead they might lose one of their party, most probably the Asur or one of the four Druchii warriors that accompanied them. Humans were not Hadranir's favorite flavor, so they would be safe for now, and of course the insane elf wouldn't touch the lord or his liegemen... Or would he?

Hadranir had to go, Makareth thought suddenly. Disappear, leave, die – anything would be good enough. Keeping an eye on him all the time was unnerving. It was not simply the normal state of watching your back that you had to be in if you wanted to survive in the Druchii society. Hadranir was thousand times as unreliable and unpredictable as any other Druchii that Makareth had ever encountered. He could be amiable, docile and flirtatious in one moment, a blood-thirsty, hot-tempered and highly dangerous murderer in the other, and a cynical, witty and rational masquerader just an hour later. Makareth definitely had to get rid of him somehow.

And there was more to it. It would be not only less dangerous without Hadranir... Makareth was considered the Dreadlord's illegitimate son. That meant that with Hadranir out of the way, he would be the only heir, and automatically the lord's favorite. Makareth had to smile – these were family affairs very typical for noble Druchii. He was getting used to his new status fast.


	18. 18 - The Slaver's Road

**Part XVIII: The Slaver's Road**

_Or: Third Challenge_

The flames crackled in the fireplace. Makareth was one of the first to wake. It was boring, and he was a bit worried about Karn and the other nauglir, even though there hardly was anything close by that was more dangerous than them. Ruathac, the only one who was really proficient in hunting, had gone to do so, and without the Shade's sharp ears and eyes around, Makareth felt a bit uneasy.

Something moved in the dimly lit room. Makareth turned his head and saw the Asur slave stirring in his sleep.

"Something is wrong." The Asur sat up and shook one of the other slaves awake. "Wake up, something is wrong here."

Makareth listened. He couldn't hear anything aside from Ayandil's whispering. Slowly he stood up and walked to the door.

A soft touch at his arm stopped him. He spun around.

Ayandil was standing behind him, having covered the distance of twenty sword lengths in just one second. "No! Don't go out there! There is danger on the road, I hear it!"

The young Druchii looked at the slave, amazed with the Asur's boldness. Ayandil seemed to forget that he was a slave all the time. But there was no time for showing him his place; if there really was something outside, he should better wake up the others now.

They waited at the windows, crossbows ready. Outside, a nauglir growled. A cold fist of fear clenched Makareth' stomach. Were the reptiles already back? Or... was this not one of their nauglir? But if it was another traveling party, why didn't they just introduce themselves? The fort was big enough for more than fifty Druchii with mounts and entourage.

Hadranir, who stood on the other side of the same window as Makareth, bit on a piece of courva root nervously. "We should go out; inside, we are trapped."

Makareth waved his hand in front of his own face, telling Hadranir with a gesture what he thought of the idea – namely that it was a stupid and insane one. Inside, they at least were safe from possible ranged attacks. Without the Cold Ones, they would be in great disadvantage if the others had mounts. Of course, they still had the horses... He looked at the door that lead to the stables. The slaves were sitting at the wall next to it, silent and scared.

Nothing happened. At least defeated by his impatience, he cautiously peered outside. Behind the few trees and stones around the way station building, he saw shadows in the moonlight that shouldn't be there. If there were enemies hiding outside, they were too silent and too invisible, and he wasn't able to guess their numbers. And they were not willing to run into the fort which could be a trap for them as well.

And then the growl was heard again. Now Makareth recognized it – it was Karn, his own nauglir, the old beast; stupid and sweet-tempered for a nauglir. But the roar he heard now was distressed and angry.

And then he saw them – Dark Elven warriors marching along the street in complete silence, dozens of them, and behind them, something else, something terrible that was a danger even to the Cold Ones.

The entrance door creaked, and Ruathac stood there, looking at the crossbow pointing at him calmly. "What happened?" He went to the fireplace.

The eerie atmosphere was gone at once. The shadows outside were not distorted anymore, the marching lines of enemies gone, the silence was replaced by the breathing of Druchii and slaves. A horse snorted in the stables close by. Makareth looked around, bewildered to find the others asleep. Even the Asur slave who had warned him was lying on the floor, curled up into a ball like a cat.

It had been nothing but a daydream, he thought. He let the crossbow sink. "Nothing... I just hadn't heard you coming." He looked at Ruathac. "No game?"

The Shade shook his head. "Nothing. Either a bad place for hunting; or the nauglir have scared everything away." He took off the thick wool coat and took out his pipe. "You can go to sleep. I'll take the next waking turn."

The nauglir came back in the morning. Makareth saw Karn sitting outside, his snout and front paws smeared with blood, and knew the Cold Ones were more successful with their hunt. Ruathac was right, they were probably the main reason why he hadn't found anything – most animals fled in panic when the deadly reptiles were around.

The young Druchii applied nauglir poison to his skin, wrinkling his nose at the smell, and felt his nerves tingle when the numbing effect of the slime set in. It was time to ride on. He stepped outside. "Hadranir? Could you give me some courva root?"

The beautiful Druchii searched in his saddle bags and held out a small leather bundle to Makareth wordlessly. Then he turned back to his nauglir, which was standing there, sleepy and content. Nonetheless, it still snapped, in a threatening gesture, at Hadranir's hand, when the latter hooked the chain reigns into the rings pierced through the scaly cheek of the beast. Hadranir cursed, moving his hand away, and jumped into the saddle.

The journey went somewhat faster now that they only had to follow the Slaver's Road, the horses keeping a steady trot, and they had encountered a slave trader who had agreed to sell them some of the weaker merchandize, so the didn't need to worry about the nauglir getting hungry again. Makareth was terribly bored; even more than he had been during his duty at the Watchtower. Four weeks days without talking to someone other than Ruathac were a hard ordeal. The landscape – withered black pines, rocky terrain, the mountains in the distance, the snow, and the grey, partly frozen sea on the right – was not raising his mood even a bit.

Shortly before they would arrive in Karond Kar – Lykaon estimated that they would be at the docks from where they could board on a vessel that would carry them over the water to the Tower of Despair tomorrow by dawn, and after a short rest for the horses, they planned to travel all night through – they saw another column of slaves marching ahead.

It was early evening, and a stormy one. They had just passed a bridge over one of the rivers scarring the coastline an hour ago and were on a piece of the road that was not following the shore but ran through a snow-covered plane. To the right, scarce forest was visible in the distance, but it didnt shield the travelers from the wind, which tore at the black manes of the horses and bit through armor and clothing.

The slaves approached, in a shuffling, chain-ringing line, and Lykaon's train rode to the left of the road, letting the column pass. A single beastmaster on a horse rode in front of the slave column, greeting the Druchii in approach and then turning to crack his whip at the slaves, urging them to increase their speed.

Makareth looked at the slaves, wondering. All of them were humans, and older, or sick ones. They coughed, barely dragging their feet over the frozen ground; most of them were malnourished and covered with sores. What kind of slave trader would hope to get animals of such poor quality and health through several weeks, if not months, judging by their slowness, of travel in winter?

The humans passed by; several dozens of armored warriors, armed with swords and spears, walked behind them, in rows of four. Whoever transported the slaves must worry about possible assaults on the column, Makareth thought. But why? Puzzled, he looked at the black-clad infantry. The first rows were now on his right, and suddenly, he realized that they their shields were unadorned, not showing to which regiment or family they belonged, and that there was no symbol that betrayed any affiliation at all.

For a moment, the marching feet and the clanking of the armor gave way to the silence of his daydream in the way station thirty days ago. A cry was stuck in his throat, and all he could do was grip the handles of his swords.

And then the warriors on the height of Lykaon's traveling party turned around as one, and the ones that hadn't reached them yet stepped to the right, cutting of their way, and attacked them, from the front and flank both.

Three spears pierced Karn's side, breaking through the plates of armor and the thick hide of the beast, and the nauglir jumped away and against Ruathac's mount, growling, and saved Makareth with this movement, as another spear aimed for the young Druchii's stomach didn't quite reach him. In the next second, the Cold One, wounded but not deadly, threw himself back at the attackers, biting wildly and crushing them under his paws. Makareth struck at the enemies in the front row with his swords. One of his swords split a helmeted head, but the other missed, and the next spear blow hit his right shoulder, ripping of the pauldron and sending a sharp, overwhelming pain through the joint.

Bolts flew past him, felling two of the warriors. A moment later, Ruathac let his crossbow fall and joined him, drawing his sword, his nauglir shredding through black armor and chain mail and ripping off limbs of the infantrymen.

The enemies threw themselves out of Karn's way, trying to get on Makareth' injured side and escape the biting jaws of the Cold One. Only two of those who had been standing in front of them managed to; Makareth turned his upper body and hit one of them on the back of the neck with his left-hand sword, beheading him, but the other came through and attacked him with his sword. Makareth gave Karn the spurs, and the lizard turned, hitting the warrior with the impact of its movement, catching him in his fall, arm between the Cold One's teeth, and shook him like a dog trying to kill its prey.

The dozen of warriors that had attacked Ruathac and Makareth were dead, and they urged their mounts forwards along the road to move closer to the rest of their group. Ruathac let out a scream of anger, seeing their allies that were riding horses slaughtered by the enemy, their mounts fleeing or dead as well. The black-armored warriors poured into the gap, attacking the two Cold One riders. The wagon with the slaves had veered to the left and into the snow-covered plane – the Asur was probably trying to get himself and the other slaves out of the way and as far as possible from the battle. One of the other horses that had lost its rider followed the wagon in panic.

Far ahead, Makareth saw Hadranir swinging his swords from the back of his nauglir, and Lykaon screaming spells and dealing blows with his enchanted blade. There were too many enemies between them now – at least two or three dozens. But they had no choice.

Makareth forced Karn to run into the dark crowd before them, striking with the sword in his left hand. With his right shoulder joint injured, he had trouble defending himself, and an enemy managed to hit his right thigh, giving him a deep wound, before he could turn around far enough to parry. He used the momentum of his movement to deal a counterblow, and his sword severed the arm of the attacker. A spear swished in the air, but bending back in the saddle so far that he had almost to lie down on Karn's back, he escaped the deadly hit.

Looking into the sky for this split second, he screamed. Something huge, winged, was falling down onto them. Frantically, he rose into sitting position, and tried to turn the nauglir, to flee; and the next moment, a black, roaring shadow descended on them, plucking Ruathac from the saddle and darting up again. And then it let Ruathac fall again, its roar growing into a cry. The Shade instantly jumped up again, a bloody dagger in his hand, and darted to the crossbow that he had left behind.

Makareth was so shocked that he wasn't able to parry the next blow, and a spear smashed against his side, throwing him out of the saddle. He flew over the back of Ruathac's nauglir and landed in the snow. Stunned by the fall, he tried to get on his legs, seeing two of the enemy warriors running towards him. He stumbled towards them, his sword raised...

And then he heard a unfamiliar battle cry, and the horse wagon crashed into the black sea of armor from the flank, the horses, whipped into rage by the elf standing at the coach box, foaming at their mouths, biting right and left, the impact of the vehicle breaking bodies like brittle branches and sending the enemies, fleeing in surprise, into the jaws of the now riderless nauglir and towards Lykaon and Hadranir. The Asur slave tore at the reigns with his left, steering the horses to the side. Three of the enemies survived the attack uninjured, and while two tried to get away, confused by the sudden turn of the events, one of them tried to throw the Asur from the wagon, aiming for him with the spear. Ayandil dodged gracefully, moving his body to the side and forwards while still standing at the front of the moving wagon. His right hand, letting the whip fall, shot out and gripped the spear shaft, ripping it out of the Druchii's hand. He turned the wagon to head into the plane again, bringing himself out of melee range, and leaving dead and crippled Dark Elves behind.

The two spearmen that had run towards Makareth attacked nonetheless. The young Druchii jumped to the side, dodging the blows but stumbling, and seeing no other chance, he dove under the belly of Ruathac's nauglir; but the two elves followed him. One of the enemies struck out to deal a final blow – and was hurled aside by a spear himself. The other one turned his head to the source of this sudden attack, and was toppled over by a black horse, hooves breaking through breastplate and helmet.

Ruathac's nauglir jumped forwards, and Makareth had to throw himself out of the way. A hand grabbed his cloak and pulled him up.

"Quick, get on!" The Asur slave shouted at him, the horse on which he sat rearing, Ruathac on a second horse just four steps from him, holding the reigns of a third. Makareth climbed up, his left hand slipping from the saddle twice, but at last he sat behind Ayandil, and the Asur forced the horse into a frenzied gallop, heading to where Lykaon and Hadranir were fighting.

Hadranir and Lykaon were not fighting against the spearmen anymore – the last nine or ten, who had survived the impact of the wagon, were scattered on the floor, killed by Lykaon's spell, their flesh decayed in mere seconds.

They were fighting against two Druchii on flying monsters. The winged beasts had the bodies of lions, but bigger and by far uglier, and their scorpion-like tails lashed out, trying to hit their opponents with deadly poison. These were manticores – and Makareth felt his blood freeze. They would never be able to defeat them. The men on the manticores were not the worst part – they were only armed with swords and whips. But how do you fight against something that is as fierce as a nauglir, but able to fly?

A memory of the fight in the arena flashed in his mind, and he knew how – you bring it down onto the ground. "Ayandil, can you ride closer to them?" he shouted, his nerves like taut strings, on the verge of rupture.

The Asur nodded grimly. The horse panicked at about three sword lengths from the monsters, but it was enough for Makareth – with his left hand, he threw his sword , and it pierced the wing of one of the manticores and stuck in it.

The beast roared, flapping its wings two more times and then landing, the pain preventing its from staying in the air. It attacked Hadranir now with even more fury, jumping at the nauglir, throwing the reptile on its side and sinking its claws into its scaly body. Hadranir had reacted in time and rolled away; now he set off and ran towards Makareth and the others.

Ruathac shot his crossbow again, and the man on the back of the wounded manticore fell slack in the saddle, a bolt through his eye.

No matter how Ayandil tried to bring the horse to go closer to Lykaon and the manticores, it refused, screaming with a voice that Makareth had never heard from an animal before.

Lykaon dodged the blow of the scorpion tail of the still flying monster and shouted a spell. An icy ray shot from his hand and hit the rider. The man hunched his back, screaming in agony; his sword and whip fell from his hands; but just a second later, he regained his consciousness, and crying out something angry, brought his flying mount to rise into the sky.

"Hurry, my lord!" Ruathac shouted. "We must get away!"

The manticore on the ground had torn the head of Hadranir's lizard off and attacked Lykaon and his mount, and though the nauglir fought with desperate fury, it was no match for the manticore. The lord screamed another spell at the beast; it shook its head, blinded by ghostly fire, but instantly resumed its attack. Suddenly, Ruathac's nauglir ran up to the fighting group, and joined in; and Lykaon threw himself from his mount's back just before the two Cold Ones and the manticore rolled over the plane in a deadly embrace.

As Lykaon jumped up onto the horse behind Hadranir, Makareth looked back. He saw Karn lying on the floor, unmoving; four spears in his side.

They rode towards the trees, away from the remainders of the battle that almost cost them their lives.

"He will be back in an hour or less!" Lykaon's eyes were burning with rage. "And I bet he will bring along something even more terrible, and more of it! We should better ride before it happens, and stay in the forest as long as possible. If we reach Karond Kar as soon as possible, he won't be able to play another one of his cowardly ambush tricks on us."

Makareth held fast to the Asur, trying to ignore the pain, the blood loss from his wound, finally noticeable, making him slightly dizzy. "Who?" he asked, confused.

Lykaon frowned. "Dolus Hydrafang. Sameira's betrothed."


	19. 19 - Ghlaith and Lakelui

**Part XIX: Ghlaith and Lakelui**

_Or: A difficult decision_

She was not amused, Makareth could see that. Her heart-shaped face was pale, and her eyes, purple and huge, were fiery with anger. He watched her hit the attacking nauglir with the spear, the metal tip, glowing red hot, hissing against the scaly hide, and the beast jumped aside, snarling.

Her rage seemed to make her even more concentrated on her task. Sitting upon a Cold One's back, she tossed the spear aside, stretching her hand out for a new one. One of her two subservient beastmasters took another metal spear, its end fresh from the fire of the enormous fireplace lighting the training cage, and ran up to her. She snatched it from his hands and spurred her mount on, approaching the wild nauglir which stood at the bars of the cage, raising and lowering its head, its jaws open, the front paws lashing out, trying to finally grasp this unusually painful prey. With a shout, she moved closer to the beast, bringing her own Cold One to stand side by side with it – something unnatural for nauglir, as they were no typical pack animals, despite being able to live in loose groups. The wild reptile snapped at its con-specific, but the glowing spear tip touched its flank, and it growled and looked back over its back.

"Stay, stay, stay!" She chanted the orders, repeating a single word again and again. Soon, the wild beast would learn to associate her words with the pain from the red hot iron or with food. For now, it was enough that it stayed standing between her on the Cold One and the cage bars.

She was lithe and fierce and much more beautiful that he remembered her to be. He, once again, took in all the details, standing on the other side of the bars. She was equipped with whip and spear instead of the twin swords, and wearing simple, narrow cut black studded leather vest, pants and high boots, typical Beastmaster clothing, instead of the pretentious Highborn attire. It revealed quite a lot more of her shapely and toned body – a fact that made watching her even more pleasurable, though somewhat distracting. Her long hair was braided into a tight braid, leaving her face free from shadow; she seemed real to Makareth, touchable, alive.

And not that much above him socially anymore, not as inaccessible as before, he thought with delight. Just a dozen of years ago, she looked down on the commoner that he was. Today, they both stood on the same step of the hierarchy ladder. Well, almost the same, her being the only daughter of a legal marriage between two nobles, and him being considered Lykaon's bastard son – but Highborn was Highborn at the end of the day.

The Dreadlord said something, and Makareth tore his gaze from the young Beastmistress reluctantly.

Lykaon looked at the spectacle inside the training cage, his smile absent and indifferent. "I will meet Dolus now," he repeated quietly. "You can either go with me or stay and watch her playing with her pets."

Makareth gasped. "Meet Dolus? My lord, why would you do that? He just tried to kill us all on the road two days ago!"

"Come with me and you will see." The lord walked out of the nauglir dens and towards the horse stables of the estate.

Makareth threw a last look at Sameira. She was the reason why Dolus Hydrafang and Lykaon the Enchanter were enemies, and he understood both men well. Despite the fact that most Druchii men were seemingly accepting of their wives' adulterous behavior, all while preserving their own loyalty unless they wanted to lose their honor, some were still very unforgiving towards the other consorts of said wife. Considering that Sameira has agreed to marry Dolus after a short betrothal time of three years, the Beastmaster was already counting her as his wife. It was logical that he tried to get rid of someone like Lykaon, wealthy and powerful enough to sway Sameira's mind and maybe make her change her decision. Wanting to own something one was fond of was natural, even though it was technically impossible to own a free Druchii woman.

And this conflict was not just about simple jealousy – it was also about politics. Sameira's father had been a relative to Anethra Hellbane, meaning that a marriage to her would improve the relations with the powerful Hellbane family; and provided Hadranir and Makareth would both die before her, which was not all that improbable, she might turn out to be the only heiress of House Kythonarh and its legendary wealth as well. Not that gold was something she really needed more of – with her sharp intellect and her talent with the beasts, as well as the advice and benevolence of the Supreme Convent Sorceress Vestara, she was able to multiply the gold and possessions that her parents left her after their death quickly. Sameira Hellbane was a really good catch.

Especially for Lykaon, who, despite being Highborn and already allowed to Drachau Rakarth' court, had still to establish his own influence here. He could use both Sameira's fame as a rising star on the Beastmaster heaven, and her estate. Right now they were living in a house which was too far from the center of the City and hence meant a loss in status.

Mulling over these thoughts, Makareth followed the Dreadlord along the streets of Karond Kar. They rode black elven steeds instead of nauglir – both Karn and Lykaon's Cold One were killed during the attack on the road, together with Hadranir's and Ruathac's mounts. Lykaon was already looking for suitable reptiles for them, but it took some time to find a good nauglir.

They headed to the harbor and held in front of one of the highest towers. The wailing of the corpses and bones upon its walls once again made Makareth look around in confusion. He needed more time to get accustomed to this sounds. If they were to stay in Karond Kar, he had to get used to it somehow, or it would drive him insane.

"Dread lord…" Makareth looked at the guards at the entrance. "How are you planning to even get into Dolus' tower?"

"I am not." Lykaon grinned. "He will get out. Go and tell the guards that Lykaon Kythonarh wants to talk to him." And he explained the younger Druchii what exactly he had to say.

Makareth obeyed. He dismounted, and walked over the smooth black stones in front of the entrance. The latter was adorned with sculptures of two hydras, which wove their many heads together above the door, creating a high arch. The guards crossed their spears in front of him.

"What do you wish, dread lord?" One of the guards recognized the crest on Makareth' kheitan, and furrowed his brow.

"I've got a message for Lord Dolus, from Lord Lykaon Kythonarh." The young Druchii looked the other man straight in the eyes. Dread lord, he thought, how good it felt to be called like that. Of course, the guards were commoners – he was now for them what Hadranir and Lykaon had been for him more than thirteen years ago. A Highborn, a top predator, someone lucky enough to have a name and a face in the overcrowded cities of Naggaroth. He had to think about it again and again, and it made his heart beat faster, and his chin rise automatically in a display of pride. It was not simply joy – it was an almost intoxicating feeling of happiness.

"I can deliver Lord Dolus a letter; or would you prefer me to simply tell him what you want him to know?" The guard asked tentatively, stepping forwards, left hand stretched out to receive a possible document.

Makareth noticed that the dark eyes of the man darted back and forth between him and Lykaon, and driven by intuition, the young Druchii jumped back, drawing his sword and cutting through the arm of the other man in a short downwards strike. The dagger which had appeared in the guard's hand as he had moved closer to Makareth was still in the grip of the severed limb. "Damn you! Have you never heard of Hithuan?" A series of bolts flew past him, and he heard Lykaon's angry hiss, and then the sighing sound of the magical blade drawn.

The wounded guard screamed, holding the bleeding stump of his arm with the left over hand. The other guard, feeling Makareth sword tip touch his throat, let the crossbow sink. "Wait! It is a misunderstanding, noble lord! I will deliver the message, of course."

"You will. Of course." Makareth smiled, struck out and beheaded him. Then he turned to the injured elf who was still living. "The message is the following: Lord Lykaon Kythonarh challenges Dolus Hydrafang to a duel. Elf against elf, ghlaith and lakelui, no beasts, no sorcery. Will you be able to tell him, or should I cut the message into your back instead?"

On the way back, Lykaon looked at his liegeman smugly, but he only spoke as they were nearing his estate. "You did extraordinary well! That is exactly the way to get through to Dolus. I was worried you would behave too diplomatically at first, but I am pleasantly surprised; in such a case, brutal honesty is the weapon of choice."

Makareth sighed. "I would have behaved diplomatically, my lord, if the fool hadn't attacked me. I fear that Dolus will not take the death or disfigurement of more of his retainers kindly."

"Dolus will not live much longer, Makareth." They had arrived at Lykaon's house in Karond Kar – a big two story building with bas relief ornaments on the walls, not far from the household slave market, and rode through the gate opened for them by the guards into the atrium. Lykaon dismounted and patted the horse on the rump. "Not a Cold One, but at least you survived." There was anger in his eyes, and Makareth knew that the lord wanted not only to get rid of a rival, but also had the wish to avenge the loss of the four nauglir and a dozen human slaves.

The young Druchii took the reins of the horses. "Dread lord, why do you want to fight him with ghlaith and lakelui? Why not your magical sword? Is it some kind of honor thing?"

Lykaon, who had already stepped towards the entrance of the building, laughed and turned his head to Makareth. "Honor thing? No, not really. The tradition of dueling with the spineblade and the soultaker is one of ancient Nagarythe; I have fought dozens of such duels when I was a hot-blooded young fellow. Do you know how many noble Druchii still learn to fight with the archaic duel weapons nowadays?"

Makareth shook his head.

The lord winked. "Close to none."

The next day, the answer came – a servant with a parchment on which Dolus Hydrafang had suggested the place and the time for the duel.

On the third day, three hours before dusk, Makareth sat on a rock, legs stretched out, his longsword and a new shorter scimitar, a replacement for the sword he lost on the Slaver's Road, at his side. The screams of seagulls were louder here than those of the harpies around the sacrificial pyres of the Tower of Despair and the wailing corpses on its walls, and it filled him with peace. They were on a small rocky island close to the shore of Karond Kar. A flat, almost round plateau had been carved into the rock hundreds of years ago, the surface now withered and covered with seagull droppings and fish bones. The water passage between Karond Kar and the duel place was frozen, and they had walked their horses towards the island instead of taking a boat. When they had approached the island, Makareth thought he had seen a woman sitting on one of the rocks, but as they came closer, she turned her head, revealing dark orbs of eyes without eyelashes and an almost noseless face, and slid into the an opening in the icy surface, the silver-scaled fishtail waving them goodbye.

Hadranir had been delighted to see the sea maiden, and the gloomy mood he had been in lately made space for his usual smiling and prancing around. Even now he was dancing from rock to rock to the music heard only to him, examining little frozen pools of water in the black stone and climbing down the rocks of the island to walk around on the ice surrounding it.

Ruathac was waiting with the horses on the ice, as the animals were not able to climb the steep rocks of the island. The horses were nervous, flattening their ears and whinnying. The Shade seemed concerned by this fact, and instead of smoking his pipe, he was standing there, crossbow in his hand, turning his head from right to left.

Dolus and his assistants were not there yet – the duel would only begin in two and a half hours, when the bleak winter sun would set.

The lord didn't seem worried at all. He sat on another rock, a few steps from Makareth, and the grey and black strands of his hair flowed in the winter wind. His eyes shone mischievously, small wrinkles building at their corners as he grinned. "I've got a task for you."

Makareth looked up, astonished. "What kind of task, my lord?"

"I want you to ride back. As fast as possible. Go to the Convent and ask Vestara for help."

The young Druchii jumped up in surprise. "The Convent? Vestara? How am I supposed to even get in?"

"Use your imagination. I know you are cunning enough to succeed." Lykaon laughed. "Do you think it is a coincidence that Dolus chose this island for the duel? It is too small and too unknown to attract spectators, and we are surrounded by water, even though it is frozen now. I said no beasts and no sorcery – but he intends to cheat. And that means that I will have to cheat, too."

"And what will Vestara do? Do you think she can help you?"

"Tell her to get the Drachau. Usually, a duel has to be permitted by him; it seems that Dolus didn't wish to inform him, though, otherwise there would be more people here. Just tell her that Rakarth has to be here."

Makareth swallowed, but the lump in his throat didn't disappear. "I will be executed for this lie."

"You won't. Believe me, if you manage to get Rakarth here, everything will work out just fine; but if you don't, we all might die." Lykaon reached out and put his hand on Makareth' neck. His claws drew a tickling thin line above the hadrilkar on the young Druchii's neck. The well-known touch soothed Makareth, as if he was a child leaning into the embrace of a parent, and lulled him into trusting the lord's plans. Why did he doubt at all, he asked himself; till now, everything the lord asked him to do turned out well.

While the horse galloped towards the Tower of Despair, the wind biting his face, Makareth knew why he had felt doubt - because the lord's decisions were sometimes just as insane as Hadranir's behavior. He had to think of something, fast, if he didn't want to end up as a wailing corpse on a tower's wall.

The convent was a high tower with many filigree spires, watching over the city with many windows covered by lace-like iron mesh and stained glass. It was guarded, of course, and as Makareth asked to see Vestara he had a déjà-vu of his attempt to warn Belladon. The guards didn't allow him to enter the tower; but at least they agreed to pass the Supreme Sorceress the message.

He waited, time flying by almost tangibly, and bit his lip in his nervousness till he tasted his own blood. He still had no idea how this all was going to function. At least the guard came and told him that she would see him now.

He ran up the many flights of stairs; the windows in the tower showed him that the pale disk of the sun was now less than a hand width from the horizon. Finally he entered her chambers. There were cases with books and weirdly shaped glass jars everywhere, amulets and tapestries of ancient mythological beings on the walls, but he had no time to look at them more closely. He even almost forgot to breathe from excitement; he had to explain the situation to her very quickly. And he still had no idea how he should do it.

He decided to begin with the truth.

"Supreme Sorceress Vestara!" He fell onto his knees. "Lord Lykaon summons your help – an enemy of him…" He looked up and saw Vestara's distanced smile, her full lips, marble skin, the thin silk of her robe parting at the hips to reveal the perfect, long legs, the smooth hand with the dark painted nails resting on her thigh. And at once he remembered the dark ritual, and the drum beat, and these hands caressing him, this skin against his, and these lips purring words about Atharti in his ear. He remembered these midnight eyes behind a golden scaled mask. And understood why Lykaon knew that she would try to help. He quickly corrected himself, dropping his voice to a low whisper. "An enemy of our Cult, to be precise… " He saw her flinch, looking around the room to ensure no one was listening.

When she leaned forwards with sudden interest, her pupils were wide. "Who? Where? Did something happen to Lykaon?"

"The Beastmaster Dolus Hydrafang has lured the lord to participate in a compromised duel." He spoke in haste. "The lord asks you for help... He said he needs you to convince the Drachau himself to come to the place of the duel."

Vestara stood up and paced the room. "The Drachau? Why should Rakarth come to Lykaon's help? Even if they were allies, the Drachau would assume that a noble stupid enough to be tricked into an unfair duel is not worth the help. A duel is a duel." She suddenly stayed standing in the middle of the room. "Unless the Drachau himself is somehow in danger."

"But he is!" Makareth smiled to himself, feeling inspiration flooding his mind. "I haven't told you everything that Lord Lykaon found out yet... Not only is Dolus Hydrafang an enemy of you and Lykaon… He is planning to marry Sameira Hellbane, who, as your protégée, was of course not let in on the secret. But he only wants to make her his wife for one reason – an alliance with the Hellbanes. He had lead negotiations with them for a long time. Sameira doesn't care much about relations with her father's family, but Dolus would do everything in his might to help them establish their power in Karond Kar; and soon, they will take over the city! Then, having both the shipyards and the slave trading center, they will control the whole economy of Naggaroth..."

He had no idea if she would believe such an outrageous lie, and was for a moment afraid that she would see through the fable he was improvising. Anethra Hellbane and her dynasty, the founders of Clar Karond, were a significant power in Naggaroth; every noble was careful to not make them their enemies. But he knew that Hubris Rakarth, the Drachau of Karond Kar, was not allied with them, seeing his own city as a counterweight to the Hellbane's power in Clar Karond, and hoped that his idea didn't sound too unrealistic.

"The Hellbanes? Anethra?" Vestara squinted her eyes in disbelief. "How can she dare... She has always been my rival, she, the foul usurper of Queen Morathi's heart! This damned witch that thinks she can both work the darkest magic to live eternally, and still have children, found a dynasty and rule a secular court!" The Supreme Sorceress shook her fists. "I should have known that she had her hands in this..."

Her reaction was even better than he had expected. His eyes were gleaming, and he felt joy at his own creativity. He forced himself into an expression of worry. "Lady Vestara… Dolus Hydrafang had already attacked us on the Slaver's road because he is afraid that Lord Lykaon tells the Drachau the truth. Now he has challenged the lord to a duel... And I believe he didn't even inform the Drachau of it like the traditions demand! Even more, the duel will be compromised – I just found out about it. Without spectators and someone who has enough authority to ensure that the rules are followed correctly, Lord Lykaon will die, and Dolus Hydrafang will soon complete his schemes of perfidy..."

He remembered that flattery had worked well with Belladon, and he added in some of that, too. "The Drachau wouldn't listen to me, whom he hardly knows and who hasn't made himself a name in the Tower of Despair yet. But you, my lady, are the most powerful Sorceress in Karon Kar, and your beauty calls the hearts of those you are talking to to obey. You are influential enough to talk to the Drachau! Please, tell Lord Rakarth of Dolus' treachery!"

She has been listening to his last monologue, her face changing expressions from angry to amused and then to mildly alarmed. When he was finished, she crouched down so that her face would be on the same height as his, as he was still kneeling, and looked at him with curiosity. She looked at him like a cat would be looking at a moth – for one moment it was fascination, and in the next moment the claws would crush the tiny wings. "I don't know if what you say is the truth... If it is not, I will personally see to your punishment. But if it is, we don't have any time to lose."

Her spire was connected to the Drachau's palace by a fragile looking bridge made of glass-like black stone. As they stepped unto it, walking carefully along the stone balustrade adorned with reliefs and figures of dragons and helldrakes, two harpies descended onto them, suddenly attacking. Makareth ducked, and the creature's claw scraped his armor, ripping his cloak into shreds. Vestara screamed a spell, and the harpies left, scared away by the ghostly daggers that hit them out of nowhere.

"Witch souls! A bad sign," The sorceress whispered. She turned around, and he saw that her face had become very pale. "Go! Go back to Lykaon. He will need your help! I will talk to the Drachau alone."

And back over the ice, he rode. The hooves of the horse raised a mist of splintered ice particles, the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, and the small island was still too far away. His lie was successful with Vestara, and maybe the Drachau would answer the call... But what if he came too late?

He reached the black rocks of the island and jumped off the horse, climbing the rocks with dexterity inspired by his excitement, and looked upon the stone plateau.

Dolus' retainers, five of them, were standing at the edge of the Arena, just as Hadranir and Ruathac did on the other side. The Beastmaster had arrived without his monstrous mount, the manticore, and Makareth silently thanked the Dark Prince for that.

In the makeshift arena, Lykaon and his opponent were standing.

Dolus Hydrafang was a tall man, as tall as Lykaon, and broader in the shoulders. His head was shaved except for one strand, reminding Makareth of Laggoran. The Beastmaster wore black plate armor, devoid of any adornments, but well-made, and a dalakoi, a lined chain mail coat, in shining silver steel, reaching to his feet in heavy boots. His hands, holding a black helmet with a face guard that was forged to resemble two hydra heads that opened their jaws around the eye-holes, rose, and he put the helmet on his head.

An assistant stepped to his side, the ghlaith and the lakelui in his hands. Dolus' gauntleted hand gripped the ghlaith, the spineblade, the traditional weapon curved like a hook.

Lykaon's armor reflected the light of the torches held by Dolus' retainers in its polished purple, black and golden metal, the many thorns on it making him seem a creature from a nightmare, but he wore no helmet, his hair flowing in the wind, held back only by the golden crescent moon comb. He hadn't put on his chain mail coat, not even a kheitan, Makareth noticed in worry, only leather pants, high boots and his semi-transparent robe with runes embroidered on it. Beside the breast- and backplate, pauldrons and gorget he only wore the vambraces adorned with fighting spines, and Makareth couldn't understand this carelessness. The lord didn't even wear armored gloves.

Lykaon smiled, his eyes burning bright green, and held out his arm.

Hadranir walked up to him, dancing as usual, and kissed the blade of the ghlaith before he handed it to Lykaon. Disdainful laughter rose from the group of the retainers of the lord's opponent, and one of them shouted an insult towards the lord's nephew. Hadranir grinned and bend back in the waist, strectching his arms out in a mockingly inviting gesture to the man who tried to offend him. Lykaon waved his hand impatiently, and Hadranir returned to his position at Ruathac's and Makareth' side.

The duel began. The opponents circled each other, Dolus making heavy steps, Lykaon walking lightly and soundlessly. Makareth began to understand why the lord left out parts of his armor – it allowed him to move more freely, while the beastmaster, not used to wearing heavy armor in his everyday life, was handicapped by the weight of his full attire.

Dolus lashed out with the ghlaith, aiming for Lykaon's leg, but his opponent jumped aside quickly. The beastmaster growled and regained his stance, stepping back to escape a counter-blow, but Lykaon just continued circling him like a predator waiting for a proper moment to attack.

Angrily, Dolus struck again, this time in a wide curve at the height of his enemy's waist, trying to cut into Lykaon's spine under the backplate. Lykaon dived down under the blade lithely and came up right next to the beastmaster, at his right side. While his opponent struggled with his own momentum, trying to turn around in time, Lykaon's weapon sank down in a quick strike, to where the chain mail coat parted between the legs of his enemy, and hooked itself under Dolus left knee, cutting through the belts of the leg harness and into the hollow of the knee. Dolus howled and hit Lykaon with his elbow, not able to reach him with the weapon, and Lykaon jumped back, tearing the ghlaith free, shredding through clothes, flesh and sinews.

The beastmaster almost fell, blood running down his ruined leg, but the hate that distorted his face under the face guard kept him standing. His weight now supported by the right leg only, he couldn't pace in a circle around his opponent anymore, and just turned towards Lykaon, waiting for him to approach.

Lykaon walked around his enemy gracefully, his eyes locked on the wounded and cursing elf. He didn't raise his weapon.

Dolus lost his patience and lounged forwards, swinging the ghlaith from above on Lykaon's arm; but the lord just moved his arm aside. The beastmaster, unable to use his left leg to stop himself in the movement and pulled down by the unfamiliar weight of the heavy armor, crashed onto the floor.

Lykaon struck down with his ghlaith, a precise, short hit, and cut into the opponent's right arm between chain mail sleeve and vambrace, into the inner side of the elbow, then retreating as fast and dexterously as before.

Hadranir jeered, and the retainers of Dolus drew their swords. Makareth furrowed his brow. It was clear that Dolus wouldn't want a fair fight – but this was too simple. Did he really think he could get away with letting his guards attack Lykaon?

The beastmaster tried to get up, but with only one leg and arm functioning, he was slow and clumsy. His wounded arm didn't obey; his fingers lost the grip on the ghlaith.

Lykaon threw the beastmaster's retainers a questioning look. "Do you really want to dishonor your lord by disturbing a duel?" His voice was this growling purr again, pleasant and nauseating at the same time, vibrating in Makareth' bowels and making him want to either throw up or bite his own hands. The guards hesitated, looking at the scene in the makeshift arena and at Ruathac, Hadranir and Makareth, who had also drawn their weapons, in confusion. The enemies' chances would be not all that good, Makareth thought, and they all knew it.

Dolus managed to lift his upper body up, his left arm trembling in exhaustion. Lykaon stepped behind him, raising the ghlaith and bringing it down in a final strike on the enemy's lower spine, paralizing his legs and lower body.

The beastmaster screamed.

Slowly, Lykaon stretched out his arm again, and Hadranir jumped to his side and put the spear-like lakelui, the soultaker, into his hand, stepping back just a moment later, a smug smile on his flawless face.

Makareth saw that the beautiful madman clearly enjoyed the show, Hadranir's cheeks glowing, his eyes fixed on his uncle in adoration. Hadranir turned to the younger Druchii. "Isn't he maginificent? Seeing him duel is more pleasurable than the best torture session!"

Makareth didn't answer. His body felt taut as a crossbow string; he knew it was not over yet. Lykaon wouldn't have told him to call for help if Dolus could be defeated this easily.

Lykaon turned Dolus over, and, standing over him, raised the lakelui. The beastmaster's scream became weirdly high-pitched, ringing through the icy air.

And before Lykaon could strike down, the ground vibrated, and the ice around the island shook, breaking like shattered crystal.

An elongated head of an enormous beast, able to fit a whole horse in its jaws, rose from the water under the cracked ice, a gigantic snake-like body following. Then a second monster appeared; and a third.

"Helldrakes!" Hadranir screamed and jumped between the monster and Lykaon, swinging his twin swords in a blur. He was hit in the chest by the helldrake's snout, send to the floor by the impact, landing on top of the immobilized beastmaster.

A second beast attacked Lykaon, its jaws opening to swallow the Druchii whole; the lord brought up the lakelui in his hand, burying the spear tip in the palate of the monster, and it jerked its head away, roaring in anger. Shivering its snout, it managed to shake the spear out and darted forwards again, chasing the Druchii on the small island.

"Run!" Lykaon screamed. He caught the falling weapon, pushed himself up from the floor and landed on the neck of one of the helldrakes that had just bitten down on one of Dolus' retainers; the rest of the beastmaster's guards were fleeing, riding their horses into a frenzied gallop towards the Tower of Despair.

Makareth felt as paralyzed as Dolus was. He watched the monstrous snake-like things throw themselves onto the arena, watched Ruathac fire bolt after bolt, aiming at the beast's eyes without any visible result; watched Hadranir dancing on the black rocks, dodging the sharp-fanged jaws of the helldrakes. He saw Lykaon pushing the lakelui through the scaled brow of the monster and then jumping off its neck; the helldrake continued attacking, though its movements became less controlled. There was no way they could win against these creatures.

Ruathac jumped onto one of the black steeds. "Come on! We have to flee!"

Hadranir, as if awaking from a dream, looked back at Ruathac, jumped from a rock in a back salto, escaping another bite of a helldrake, and ran to the horses.

Lykaon followed, and in the run, he gripped the shocked Makareth' sleeve and dragged him along.

Just as they started riding back to the main island of Karond Kar, the ice burst in a fountain of shards twenty sword lengths in front of them. The helldrakes, more intelligent that one would think, had cut off their way.

The horse reared, whinnying in panic. Makareth squeezed his eyes shut, holding his sword up in hope he could at least wound the helldrake that would swallow him, awaiting pain and darkness, and an unworthy death. His short life flashed before his hadn't he agreed to become a corsair and to travel with Laggoran? Why didn't he accept Lykaon's offer to stay in Naggor? All the decisions, for nothing.

A roar, loud and furious, sounded through the air, and then he felt heat on his face and his hands, a sudden wave of hot air throwing him off the horse. He landed on the ice with a painful thud, his eyes opening involuntary, and he scrambled to his feet.

What he saw, he would never forget.

The helldrakes, their scaly hide scorched and smoking, were attacking a monster that was at least their size, but much more ferocious. It snatched one of the snake-like creatures in its movement and ripped its head off with its jaws, holding the long neck with its clawed paws; it threw itself on the next helldrake, landing on its body and biting viciously into its spine, sending it into shivering agony. When it flew up again, its huge black wings beating the air, fire exploded from its mouth, and burned the dying helldrake to ashes.

The last helldrake slipped back into the waters, fleeing; where the fiery breath had touched the ice, it had melted. Another blast of heat made the water boil, and the helldrake dove down, escaping the attack.

The ice cracked and swayed. Makareth jumped up and ran back to the island, frantically.

The black dragon landed on the ice beside the makeshift arena, and the Drachau Rakarth, sitting upon its shoulders, laughed. "This is not a very honorable way to duel, Dolus Hydrafang."

Dolus, lying in a red puddle on the black stone, breathing, but already unconscious from blood loss, didn't answer.

Lykaon climbed up the rocks and stepped onto the stone surface. He bowed to Rakarth.

"Well, Lykaon; you should have asked for my permission from the beginning. But I feel generous today, and due to the fact that you and your allies probably saved me quite a lot of trouble, I allow you to duel yourself with Dolus as much as you want." The Drachau didn't smile anymore as he said that. With a quick nod to the unconscious beastmaster, he added: "He has been rendered defenseless by you, as the tradition demands. Now end this."

Lykaon picked up the lakelui that had belonged to Dolus, since his own soultaker was still stuck in the skull of one of the helldrakes. He walked over to the half-dead Druchii, raised the lakelui over his head and brought the weapon's halberd-like blade down onto the neck of the opponent in a smooth strike, severing the head from the body.

"The duel is won by Lykaon Kythonarh." The Drachau's voice was carried away by the wind, and Bracchus, his black dragon, rose up into the skies again.


	20. 20 - The Lord's Bride

**Part XX: The Lord's Bride  
**

_Or: The Distraction_

"My dear niece, I have brought you a present." Lykaon grinned, bowing in a graceful, fluid movement. Makareth sank on one knee behind him, and Hadranir did so as well.

Sameira was wearing her armor again. Her hair was sweaty and clung to her forehead, and her cheeks were reddened – it seemed she just came back in from a training session. "A present?" She looked at him with suspicion.

They were in her study, which had surprisingly few books and scrolls in it; instead, maps of Naggaroth, Ulthuan and the Old World adorned the walls among the tapestries depicting battles of the Witchking and his army against the Asur. A small table with an unfinished letter on it, the ink hardly dried, and a chair in front of it, both items made of blood oak, were the only mobiliar. A heap of copies of book pages about beastmastery and the breeding of nauglir, written with an unsteady hand writing, was lying in one corner, sitting pillows and a striped fur of some big animal beside it. The room's walls were adorned with fake pillars with reliefs of Druchii warriors, beautiful maidens and monsters and lighted by oil lamps. Even with the few items in it, the room looked clustered and untidy, dust gathering in the corners, a plate with molding bread standing on the table next to the letter. Sameira seemingly didn't let her servants into the study.

Lykaon opened the leather bag that he had brought with him and took out Dolus' severed head, holding it by the strand of hair.

Sameira's eyes went ice-cold with hate. Makareth saw that she was shaken with anger, despite her trying to conceal her mood; her cheeks became even redder, and her finely chiseled nostrils quivered. "The head of my betrothed? What kind of present is this, uncle? Have you lost your mind?" Her hand dropped to the handle of one of her swords.

The lord walked past her and put the bloody trophy onto the table. "It had to be done, my lovely Sameira. It was a fair duel – from my side. He, of course, tried to cheat. But luckily, the Drachau doesn't like cheaters."

The mentioning of the Drachau made Sameira flinch. Makareth saw that she began reconsidering her situation, her eyes looking at Lykaon less threateningly. "The duel was approved by Lord Rakarth?"

"Yes. Have you not known that Dolus was a traitor, scheming against the Drachau? He wanted to use you in his schemes. As a daughter of a Hellbane, you would be the price for the pact with their family." Lykaon turned around and looked at one of the tapestries, which showed Malekith ordering the execution of Eltharion's Asur warriors. "Wonderful work! Was this thing made by Druchii? The depiction of the Witchking is rather flattering!"

The young woman glared at him. "Outrageous! How can you dare to say something like that?" Her hand was opening and closing on the sword handle. Makareth wondered if she had a chance against the lord, and thought that she probably didn't – and that she knew it as well.

"Now, with Dolus out of the way…" Lykaon looked over his shoulder, smiling at Sameira. "You can finally marry me."

She retreated, her back to the wall. "Marry you?" Her anger was tearing itself free, breaking the cage of self-restraint, and Makareth saw her shiver in the hot desire to kill. She spat on the floor. "I would not even bed you! Look at you, uncle – you are old, and your face and body are tainted by age and scars!" She raised her chin rebelliously.

Lykaon leaned against one of the pillars, sighing. "Maybe you are right, but you and I both belong to House Kythonarh, are of similar status, and if we work together, we can bring the glory and the power it used to have in times of old Nagarythe back to our House! Why would you want to mingle with lower nobles? None of the current Highborn families are of ancient heritage – except maybe the Hellbanes. Or would you prefer to marry your cousin Duriath?" He laughed, seeing Sameira cast down her eyes. "I bet you would, he is rich, cold-blooded and handsome; but he is more enamored with the sea and his Black Ark than with you. And I have not only gold to lay down at your feet… I also have Dolus' estate, his slaves, and his collection of beasts in my command now. I am in need of a skilled beastmaster… Haven't you always wanted to own a manticore? Helldrakes? A second hydra?"

Sameira swallowed. The offer seemed to be tempting, but the insult of being given the head of her dead betrothed as a gift was still haunting her – it was visible that she was trying to decide if she should give in or not. Finally, she straightened her back, preferring pride to greed. Her purple eyes threw Lykaon a haughty look. "If I have to marry someone from House Kythonarh to keep the House alive… I'd rather marry your fake bastard son. He is young, beautiful and docile, and he at least has enough respect for me to not bring me such disgusting gifts."

Lykaon raised one eyebrow. His face showed no anger, just a mixture of surprise and amusement.

The young woman swept Dolus' head from the table with a careless strike of her elbow. "I mean it. I ask you for the hand of your son, uncle. Or is the child old enough to decide for himself?"

She was looking at Makareth, her full lips curled into a cruel smile. Somebody has to pay for this disgrace, and if I cannot make Lykaon suffer, then you will, her eyes said.

Lykaon's voice echoed in his ears. "We'll see."

The next days and weeks, Makareth walked around on their new estate, watching dwarven and Asur slaves turning the hydra sculptures and reliefs of the building into snakes.

Lord Lykaon spent most of his time either at Rakarth' court, taking Hadranir with him, or with Hadranir alone, whose duty it became to oversee the sculptor's work and to choose those slaves and servants of the former Hydrafang household that were loyal enough to stay, and with whom the lord hence had a lot to talk about. Ruathac had been given the task of building up a new guard, since none of the guards that had been serving Dolus could be trusted.

And Makareth – he had nothing to do. He had been as good as ignored by Lykaon since the meeting with Sameira, and he was grieved at the thought that the lord had taken offense in her words after all, and now was angry with Makareth for being his new rival. The young Druchii did think that Sameira was desirable – but he had never meant to get into the way of Lykaon. It was made worse by the fact that Sameira seemingly continued to refuse to marry Lykaon, despite the lord trying to persuade her to several times in the last weeks; once, the young Druchii heard Lykaon mention to Hadranir that she seemed still weirdly obsessed with the idea of wedding Makareth.

He was depressed, but even more, he was terribly bored again. He had thought about fighting in the arena – there were several of those in Karond Kar – but after having seen a couple of fights, he understood that the scale here was quite different. Too many fighters who might turn out winning against him – and the worst of all, most champions here were slaves. Slaves, trained to be better fighters than noble Druchii. He had no interest in losing his life yet, and he didn't want anybody who saw him fight in the arena assume that he was a slave.

Makareth had tried to amuse himself with some of the most attractive slaves in the new household, but all physical pleasure was empty and bleak to him. He had went down to town to drink and gamble, lost money and got into fights, but nothing gave him the rush of excitement anymore, and the thought that he had fallen from grace with the lord was always there and distracted him.

He also found out that he missed Karn, the old stubborn reptile. They had new nauglir now – Dolus had had eight of them in his stables, all tamed and trained. But he couldn't choose any of them to become his mount. It was as if something in his life had ended with Karn's death, as if a part of him that was ambitious and hopefull was gone. His marvel at his new status as a Highborn and the possibilities now open to him had dissolved into a stale awareness of possible rivals and the suspicion of poison in his meals; he asked himself what else he was living for.

And so it happened that when Hadranir walked into his room at dusk, finding him still in bed, empty wine kegs scattered around the room, and informed him that the slaves of the household who were not considered useful for the future would be sacrificed in a ritual at the next full Chaos moon, he almost cried out in joy.

And then Hadranir handed him a letter – a parchment roll, sealed by wax with the crest of the Hellbane family – and danced out again.

He read it, and his heart jumped. It was from Sameira.

"My dear Lord Makareth Kythonarh," she wrote, "As I have already mentioned, I am interested in an alliance with you. Since your father didn't inform me of his decision, I assume that you are already of age to decide for yourself. I invite you to have dinner at my house tonight, and urge you to appear so that we can discuss the matter." The letter was simply signed with "Your cousin Sameira Hellbane."

All the time, he thought she was just trying to make his life miserable or to ridicule Lykaon as a revenge for the latter's gruesome methods; but it seemed he had been wrong. Maybe she really found him interesting. Or maybe she just wanted to heave her act of revenge onto a whole different level, the quiet voice in his head suddenly whispered. He grinned and tossed the letter into a chest where he kept his clothing. He would find out sooner or later.

They had eaten in silence, Sameira smiling at him from time to time, and he felt nervous but grateful every time she did. When the servants brought the plates with the roast meat and cooked vegetables away, she poured wine with her own hands, for him and for her, and raised her goblet. "I drink to our future alliance, if it is to be."

He nodded and drank, and for a moment he feared that she might have mixed poison into the beverage; but she gulped the wine down too, and he felt better, seeing that.

"Come with me." She rose. She was wearing neither the armor nor her beastmaster attire, but a silken robe in dark blue, long and modest, so unusual for a Highborn Druchii female, and a black khaitan with the Hellbane crest. The sword belts, this time without scabbards and weapons, held the clothes together above her hips, underlining the slight hourglass form of her slender body. Walking behind her, Makareth felt the urge to put his hands on her narrow waist and to pull her towards him, burying his face in the shiny black hair flowing onto her shoulders freely. Maybe it was the anticipation of the ritual that had awakened his desires again, or the wine that she had given him – whatever it was, he felt attracted to her, whether he wanted it or not.

She led him to the stables. "Close your eyes." Her voice was full of child-like glee, and despite his worry that he was behaving stupid, bringing himself into a defenseless situation at the hands of a possible rival, he obeyed.

Her hand, less soft than he would have expected, took his, and she pulled him forwards into the building. he heard the doors close and her talking to the guards, just a greeting, and then he smelled the well-known stench of Cold Ones.

"Now look." She let go of his hand.

He opened his eyes. They stood in front of a nauglir cage, strong iron bars protecting them from a possible attack. Inside the cage, a young, long-legged reptile was crouching, turning its ugly head to the visitors. Instead of growling and throwing itself at the bars, it eyed them calmly.

"I trained him myself. He is calm on the outside, but he is very fast for a Cold One, a fast learner, and ferocious in battle. When he is angry, he goes berserk, and that is why I called him Rage." She grinned, seeing his confused expression. "He is yours."

He looked at the nauglir and back at the young woman, and didn't know what to say.

She took his hand again, weaving her fingers into his. "My gift for you. As a token of my affection."

"Were you serious about this all the time?" His throat felt unusually dry, and his voice sounded unknown and coarse.

Sameira chuckled and stepped closer. They were of same height, and her purple eyes, sparkling with excitement, looked directly into his. "Yes," she breathed out.

At once he realized that he had never experienced a situation like this. His only longer relationship, the affair with Belladon, had been a thoroughly planned move; a lie at first and a pleasant habit in the end. Of course, there was also Laggoran, but he had never allowed the closeness between them to move much further than friendship – which was actually already much too close for a usual relationship between two Druchii. The rest of his erotic adventures were drugged excesses or one-sided, torture-laden sessions with submissive playthings.

As Sameira's hands touched his cheek softly, he was already panicking, because he didn't know at all how to react. Would she expect him to say something nice to her, flatter her, promise her future heroic deeds for her sake, and give her gifts in return? Or should he rather to move on directly to the physical part of such an encounter, kiss her, rip her clothes from her body, take her against the wall? If he had a choice, he'd strongly prefer the latter, but he wasn't sure how to treat a Highborn maiden that just declared that she wanted to marry him; he didn't want to offend her. Should he wait for her signal, or take the initiative? He was completely at loss.

"What is wrong?" She tilted her head. "Don't you want me?"

He gave up thinking, leaned in and touched her lips with his, finally placing his hands on her waist and pulling her closer like he had wanted to do all the time. They kissed, biting each other's lips lightly, and he parted her mouth with his tongue, involving hers into a dance, and slid one of his hands up between her shoulder blades and the other down to her toned behind, pressing her against him. She gave out a small moan, her hands stroking up and down his back, giving him pleasant shivers even through the clothing.

And then she laughed and pushed him away. "Come on, I don't want to lay with you in the stables. I will let one of my subservient beastmasters bring Rage, your new nauglir, to your stables tomorrow morning." She turned to go, but threw him another glance from the doorstep of the stables. "Think about my offer."

The wailing of the skulls upon the walls cooled down Makareth feverish state a bit when he rode down the street back to the new estate of House Kythonarh, and the realization that this could be just a clever move on her side kicked in. She could want to alienate him from Lykaon, to take revenge for the insult… Or maybe she really saw him as a useful ally. But if you marry her, you will have to stay faithful to her while she can take as many consorts as she wants, joked the whispering voice in his head suddenly, and do you really think you've got a will strong enough for that?

Rage was a clever beast, and well-trained. He accepted his new rider surprisingly quickly, and soon Makareth was able to practice fighting with the lance from the back of the nauglir with his new mount. He was reluctant to ask Lykaon about it, who had noticed the new beast in the stables but didn't say anything, so instead he asked Hadranir.

Strangely enough, the latter was glad to oblige, and they had spent many days training outside the city, first with straw mannequins, later with some of the disposable slaves. It was more fun with the slaves, much more realistic, because they moved and tried to run away. After the training sessions, he sometimes accompanied Hadranir on his duty and watched him talk to the Asur and dwarven sculptors. Most of them seemed to fear Hadranir, which was just natural, but there were two High Elves who were seeking the conversation with him. Makareth listened Hadranir speaking about the different aesthetic styles of art and sculpting in Naggaroth and Ulthuan, and was astonished how gentle the lord's nephew behaved towards these slaves.

He asked Hadranir about it, and got the answer that art and beauty were the only things worth living.

He saw Sameira only a week later. She appeared at their estate, dressed in armor and with her swords at her side, and joined them for a meal. She sat at Lykaon's right, talking to the lord about beastmastery and giving him advice on whom to hire for the task of training all those beasts that he inherited from his dead rival. From time to time, she threw Makareth looks full of meaning, and his blood rushed in his veins every time she looked at him, and he couldn't touch the food or the wine out of excitement. When the meal was finished, he went down with her to the stables. Again, they had kissed, and she whispered in his ear that she was still waiting for his decision. And he still wasn't able to say yes or no, the voice in his head painting scenes of jealousy and murder into his possible future with her.

"Give me more time," he had asked.

"Come to my tower when the moon has risen," she had answered, and jumped into the saddle.

And later that night, as he had ran up the stairs, she opened the door to her study, laughing, and slid onto the sitting pillows. He sat down next to her, wordlessly leaning over to kiss her, and she embraced him, returning the kiss with passion, pulling him onto her. His long hair hung into her face, and she broke the kiss and pulled the black strands to the sides of his face, her touch warm and light like sun-rays, holding it there with her palms and brushing his lips with hers again. It was probably the longest kiss he had ever experienced, and despite all the debauchery he had seen and done, this here excited him more.

Pushing himself up on one arm, he unfastened the belts around her waist with the other hand. His fingers traced the contours of her body under the blue robe, and she helped him, throwing her khaitan away and pulling her robe over her head. Her body was both soft and hard in all the right places, lithe and toned, with breasts just a perfect handful for his fingers. Her skin was pale, almost glowing white in the darkness, and, other than her flawlessly unscarred face, adorned with faint remains of old injuries on legs and arms, where the monsters she trained had ever managed to wound her in the past. He kissed along the inner sides of her arms, his lips tingling from the touch of her skin, and then the insides of her thighs and up.

Makareth felt her hands in his hair, moving his head, guiding him to please her even better, and he thought about the beasts she taught to do tricks, and at last she howled in delight, pushing her hips towards him, just to regain her composure a moment later, tearing at his robes, trying to pull him up. He sat back and undid his belt, struggling out of his khaitan and robe quickly. Hot skin and sparkling eyes, Sameira threw herself at him, straddled him, her soft breasts pressing against his chest, and moved up and down, back and forth on his lap, making the aching heat between his legs, still trapped in the leather pants, worse. Impatience got hold of him; he bit her neck, hard enough to make her scream out, and then pushed her away from him to hastily undo the cords of his pants, and she licked her lips and dove down, giving back what he had offered her, and he let himself fall into the pillows, forgetting the world for the wet warmth of her mouth.

She had stretched out at his side, stroking his stomach lazily with one hand, one leg over his hips, and he turned his head to look at her face, her cheeks red with lust and not with anger.

"You are beautiful." She whispered, opening her gleaming eyes. "I wanted you from the beginning, when Hadranir dragged you into the hall during that feast twelve years ago. It was only your low social status that stood between us." She sat up and looked down on him, her hands stroking his hair away from his face again. "You are almost as beautiful as a maiden."

"What?" He laughed. "How is that a compliment for a warrior? I am not a weakling Asur to be delighted by such words!"

"You have no scars on your face, except this little one above the brow…" Her fingertip touched it. "And your skin is smooth."

"What if that changes? I might get older, or I might get wounded; I do get to fight often after all… Would you leave me then?" He caught her hand and kissed her fingertips.

She pulled her hand away. "Maybe. Or just choose a second consort, if we are married by then." She said it coldly, and the whispering voice in Makareth' head chuckled as the sudden sting of disappointment pierced his heart. She stood up and picked up her robe. "You should return to your estate now." The silk flowed over her skin, and she straightened it with her hands. A smile lighted her finely chiseled features. "Think about it, and tell me your answer."


	21. 21 - A Question of Loyalty

**Part XXI: A Question of Loyalty**

_Or: Lost in the Otherworld_

The slow beat of the drums reverberated in his spine, and he drank deeply from the cup, spice and bitterness on his tongue, and gave it to Hadranir. The fires in the braziers breathed incense into the air, and in their flickering light he saw the bodies of Druchii and slaves moving in writhing waves of flesh. He felt sated and lightheaded, the taste of the blood of the human body that he had just taken apart together with Hadranir finally washed away by the liquid drug, and he stroked the hair of the masked Druchii woman that was sleepily biting into his thigh, leaving small teeth marks but causing no pain. Another female elf sat behind him, her fingers painting something on his back with her own blood. The ritual had been going on for hours, and the excitement that he had felt for the most part of it was slowly fading. He scanned the room for Sorceress Vestara, whom he had recognized this time, and saw her entangled in an embrace with two other females, their graceful movements almost a dance. Waiting for the effect of the toxic beverage to set in again, to heat his blood, numb his mind and allow him proper worship of the Lord of Pleasure again, he tried to concentrate on the more pleasurable sensations, but his forehead and cheeks itched under the mask, and he flinched, startling the Dark Elven women that were caressing him.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" The dark purr in his ear made his heart jump.

He turned his face, looking into green burning eyes. These were the first words that the lord had directed to him since the incident with Dolus' head and Sameira, he thought through the mist that was enveloping him again as the beverage finally began spreading warmth and desire through his body again. "Yes, my lord."

Lykaon sat down, cross-legged, and his hand reached out for the young Druchii's neck. "This night, we are all but servants to Atharti, and to her father, the Prince of Pleasure. Maybe it is time that I forgive you your insolent behavior."

The familiar touch of the lord's claws made Makareth shiver in relief and gratitude. His senses were both hightened and obscured by the drug, and he saw details clearer than usual – the sharpened points of the lord's white teeth, the serpentine scar running across his biceps, the mask of Asur leather painted with purple, blue and gold – while the whole picture became blurred. His fragmented perception was drawn to Lykaon, and Lykaon only, the two women touching him suddenly absent, Hadranir's grin disappearing into darkness. The enticing smell that always accompanied the lord enveloped him as he darted forwards, winding his arms around Lykaon's neck, throwing himself into the lord's arms like a small child would into the arms of its parent. "Forgive me! My lord, forgive me! I thought I had lost your favor forever." Some part of his mind registered that this kind of behavior was weak and that the lord might be repulsed by such sentimentality; but he felt such loyalty and admiration towards Lykaon at once that it overrode all his instincts, and the progressing intoxication made him dizzy and yearning for touch again.

But Lykaon wasn't appalled in the least. His hands came to rest on the young Druchii's back, and he whispered into his ear, a smile in his voice. "You shouldn't try to betray me again though; let go of your foolish idea to marry Sameira. You are my tool in a greater plan than petty court politics, and you must remember that your loyalty should belong to me, and to the Dark Prince, and to no one else. Should you be a flawed tool and intervene with my schemes, I will dispose of you as easily as I did with Niodar or with Dolus."

Makareth listened to the dark voice but only understood half of what the lord was saying. The drug was working much stronger than the last cup he had drank, probably due to his exhaustion. He leaned his head on Lykaon's shoulder, breathing in and out in the rhythm of the drums, soothed and excited at the same time by the strange musk that seeped through the pores of the lord's skin.

The lord hooked a clawed finger under the young Druchii's chin and looked him in the eyes. The green fires went darker for a moment. "Prove your loyalty."

Makareth nodded. The voice that had been whispering in his head was there again, urging him to agree, swear allegiance, surrender. "How? I would do anything."

The lord led him to the stone altar in the middle of the room. It was empty except for the fresh blood on it. "Give yourself to the Dark Prince; be the sacrifice." And he ripped the mask from Makareth' face.

Before he could answer, the mass of limbs, bodies and masked faces rose from the floor and moved away from the walls of the room, gathering around the altar, purple dressed shadows and white skin, predatory smiles and eyes full of hunger. Dozens of hands pushed him onto the stone, holding him down. He tried to fight both the cultists and the delirium the drug forced onto his mind, but slid out on the slippery surface covered by the blood of the last victim, and all that was left to him was screaming as he realized that this would be his death.

Come to me, the secret voice in his mind said, and you will find bliss.

The world dissolved into maddening caresses, burning, tingling shocks of pleasure and excruciating pain. He lost track of time, the torture seeming endless, and soon he wasn't able to distinguish lust from pain anymore, leaning into the bite of the whip or the touch of incandescent metal and into the hands or tongues of masked Druchii with equal ardor.

"It goes further than merely succumbing to sensation; to behold the power of the Dark Prince, you have to let go of your principles. Debase yourself; indulge in all those things that you deem beneath your pride." Lykaon whispered into his ear. "Seek to explore every possible experience, no matter how foul, no matter how painful, and you will find inspiration; fall prey to your own darkest, most evil, most shameful fantasies, and you will emerge a shining champion; embrace your weakness, and you will grow stronger."

He felt so much; he rejoiced at the sound of his own screams, marveled at the sight of his own blood added to the red on the altar, shook in delight when a blunt blade ripped his skin open instead of cutting it, when thin strips of it were pulled from his flesh like clothing. He was drowning in lust and agony, locked into a cage of his own body, so focused on feeling that everything else became a blur.

At the end, the sensations grew weaker, his body drained of too much blood, physical exhaustion and sensory overload finally numbing him. Frustrated by this loss, he cried out for more, offered everything that was left of him to the Dark Prince of Pleasure, his faith, his soul, his life, his broken body, just to continue feeling the horrible bliss that only this deity could grant; and finally, merciful darkness enveloped him.

Bitter taste of bile and blood was replaced by another bitter taste, more fresh and intense, in his mouth. He recognized it – it was crushed courva root. He bit down on it, and felt pain in his jaw. Slowly, he tried to remember where he was.

"Time to wake up again." It was Lykaon's voice.

Makareth opened his eyes, slowly. It was almost dark around him, only one brazier still holding glowing coals. He was in the ritual hall, lying upon the bloody stone table on his stomach, but the other cultists seemed to be gone. He tried to move, and realized that he was bound, arms behind his back, ankles to wrists, in a tight hogtie.

Lykaon walked slowly around the altar and sank on one knee in front of him. The calloused fingertips of his hand caressed Makareth' cheek gently, the claws drawing thin lines on it, and then the hand slid to the back of his neck. Gripping him by his tangled hair and pulling his head up and back, Lykaon looked into Makareth' eyes and smiled his shark smile. Then he raised a clawed hand above the surface of the altar, holding a dagger.

Makareth shivered, looking at the lord with eyes wide open in horror. The sharp, gleaming blade reflected the cruel green fires of Lykaon's eyes, and Makareth' heart sank. "Please… I don't want to die." Makareth's voice was coarse from all the screaming, and it hurt to talk.

Lykaon continued smiling. "You were truly beautiful; in pleasure and in suffering. No wonder my foolish niece wanted you as her companion." His lips brushed Makareth' sweaty forehead. "I am glad that you have made the right decision again; because of your oath to the Dark Prince, I will gift you with your life. But you still need to be punished. "

And instead of slitting his throat, Lykaon brought the dagger up to his face, cutting slowly from the right side of his forehead over the bridge of the nose and down his left cheek, and then applying another, almost horizontal cut from under one cheekbone to under the other. The blade cut deeper than Makareth could stand, and he tried to get away, screaming and struggling, but the unyielding hand on his neck, woven into his hair, held him in place. Blood ran into his right eye and down his face.

"You will never be as beautiful for anyone as you were this night for the Dark Prince." Lykaon let go of his neck and stood up.

Makareth fell limp in his bonds, both shocked by the event and relieved that he was still alive.

A liquid splashed over his head, burning unpleasantly in his eyes and in the open wounds across his face. He squirmed weakly.

"Don't worry, it is just vinegar." Lykaon laughed. "To make sure the scars won't heal too well."

His bonds were cut, and Makareth tried to sit up and instantly howled as nausea and pain from his over-strained joints and from dozens of wounds and bruises hit him. Even the movement made him dizzy, and he let himself fall back onto the sticky surface of the altar.

Lykaon left, and minutes passed, or maybe hours, and he was still not able to get up, trying from time to time; he only managed to slide down from the altar and slump against its side. The coals in the brazier went dark after a while.

At once Makareth heard Hadranir talking to someone, and his silvery laugh became louder as the lord's nephew approached, a witchlight lantern in his hand. He crouched, shining light on Makareth' face. "Now you can finally understand me, can't you?" Hadranir's purple eyes were mockingly sympathetic, and he grinned and pinched Makareth' cheek, stretching the wound going over the cheekbone painfully. "And you were resenting me, you fool…" He pulled Makareth up.

Another elf helped him supporting Makareth from the other side, and as Makareth turned his face to see who it was, he stumbled nonetheless. It was Sameira.

He tried to free himself from their grasp, but the world went black again, and at last he let them drag him through the cellars and corridors until they were back at Sameira's tower.

By the time they heaved him onto a bed, fever had joined the pain and nausea. He was drifting in and out of conscience.

They seemingly thought that he was too ill to understand them, because he heard them talking about him quietly. Or maybe they just didn't care.

"You said that Lykaon would kill him out of jealousy, not just disfigure him." Sameira's whisper sounded slightly annoyed.

"I thought he would. I still don't understand why he didn't." Hadranir sighed.

"You could still kill him now."

Hadranir laughed sarcastically. "Sure, and get turned inside out by Lykaon when he discovers that instead of bringing his precious son back to the estate as he ordered, I chopped off his head. The suspicion would be on me instantly. No, we have to wait for another chance."

Sameira exclaimed in disbelief. "We? You, my dear cousin, we are talking about you! I hold no grudge towards the young idiot. On the contrary, he was quite... enjoyable." She chuckled.

"More than me?" Hadranir's soft whisper was muffled by the sound of a kiss.

"Fool! Of course I will always enjoy your presence more. But your rival is your problem, not mine, from now on. I will not risk Lykaon's anger any more than I already have. Especially now that the boy is not even worth playing with anymore, the poor blemished thing."

Makareth felt helpless fury rising in his heart, and he wanted to push himself up from the bed, but his limbs didn't obey. His head was spinning, and he collapsed, shaking in a fever fit.

When he came around again, he was in a different room – his own, at Lykaon's estate. He was still in pain; his skin felt as if it was on fire.

Ayandil, the Asur slave, was kneeling at his bed, wiping his body clean with strips of linen dipped in cool water. "Shhh, don't move too much, young master."

Makareth raised his head, the effort of the movement making him shiver. Now that the dried blood had come off he saw how badly injured he really was. Almost all of the wounds had caught infection, and where his skin was still more or less intact, it was covered with scabbed whip traces and bruises. His joints still hurt, and there were inflamed blisters from burns on his stomach and inner thighs. He let his head fall back on the pillows and closed his eyes.

What a fool he had been.

The fever rose, and for several days, he was losing himself in nightmares caused by the hallucinogenic side effect of hushalta, which Ayandil fed him. The Asur slave was always there. Fighting against the ague and the pain that wandered over his skin endlessly, Makareth only noticed his presence in those moments that he felt slightly better.

But everytime the pain became more bearable, the memory of Hadranir and Sameira talking about him drove him to madness.

"Tell me about Ulthuan!" He begged the Asur slave at last, trying to hold fast to something that would distract him.

"I will, I will, master, just try to keep still. Do not toss so much from one side to another, it will rip open your wounds again." Ayandil sighed. "I have to collect my memories, though… Nobody had wanted to hear me talking for hundred and fifty years, and I have forgotten too much of what I had known. And I am not from Ulthuan, neither… I was born in Arnheim, and have never been on another continent. But my ancestors are from Tiranoc, the most beautiful land of Ulthuan, where the capital of the fair kingdom had been before the Sundering. Do you know where Tiranoc is? It was mostly swallowed by the tidal wave that destroyed Nagarythe."

And the Asur slave told him of the swift fleets of ancient Tiranoc that sailed forth to the Old World and the New, of flourishing colonies in Marienburg and Arnheim. He told him about the graceful and powerful steeds that pulled the chariots of Tiranoc and how the tradition was still held up after the kingdom has long lost its glory.

Makareth looked up to him through the mist of hushalta and fever. "You are a charioteer! I knew it from the way you had steered the wagon into the enemy's flank…"

The blond slave shook his head sadly. "It was just a wagon, not a chariot. I could have done much more with a real battle chariot! I would have been a charioteer, had I not been captured by corsairs as a youth. I was about your age back then. They wiped out the small village close to Arnheim, just under the nose of the city's armies, and took everybody they didn't kill as slaves. I was of noble origin; my mother and I were only visiting an old friend of hers, and it was just bad luck that we had been in the village that night. Had it not happened, I would steer a golden chariot along the streets and planes of Arnheim, racing against other nobles; or drive it into an attack on the forces of your kind over a bloody battlefield. I would have been a charioteer… But now I am a slave." Ayandil fell silent.

"Tell me more," Makareth demanded, closing his eyes.

"Have you ever heard what became of Nagarythe after your cities left, afloat over the ocean? Your people still fight to take it back from the High Elves; but do they know what Nagarythe is now? My mother used to tell me about the Shadowlands; do you want to hear what she had said?"

And he spoke of creatures of Chaos wandering the lost and scarred shores, and about the endless battle on the Blighted Isle where the warriors, though dead, rise up and continue to fight night after night. Of the new attempts to bring the lands under control of the Asur he spoke, and about the fierce and silent Shadow Warriors that were, according to the stories, so much like the Druchii that one could hardly tell them apart, if not for their clothing.

"There are Druchii in Ulthuan?" He was slowly falling asleep.

"Not Druchii; those clans of Nagarythe that refused to follow Malekith and his cabal. They hate your kind; but I suspect that secretly, they hate mine too." Ayandil chuckled. "My mother said that they are strange people, much like the Shades in Naggaroth."

"Like Ruathac," Makareth suggested, yawning.

Listening to Ayandil's stories, he drifted away to another dream. But every dream would be either about the caresses and tortures of the ritual or about Sameira, and he always woke up covered in cold sweat just a few hours later, the pain in his infected wounds making him shift and shiver in the silken covers.


	22. 22 - Hakseer

**Part XXII: Hakseer**

_Or: A Way Out_

"My lord… No offense, but are you out of your mind to plan a raid on the Empire?" Karelion put down the goblet with force, spilling wine on the table. His grey-blue eyes were gleaming drunkenly.

Makareth reclined in his chair. "No. We are not going to the big cities – just a few villages in Nordland. We will dodge the patrol ships and attack at night."

"Why not Bretonnia, dread lord?" Tirael stood at the door that lead from the captain's cabin to the stairs connecting the different floors of the ship's citadel. His short black hair was hidden under a hood of a short cloak, and shadows cast on his face made it impossible for Makareth to see if his expression was neutral or one of disapproval.

"Look, I have spoken to the captain – the actual captain, not the fake title they gave me since it is my damn Hakseer – and he says that only the bigger towns are well-protected. As long as we don't get involved into a sea battle, our harvest will be rich and widely unproblematic." Makareth cast Karelion an amused glance, seeing the retainer roll his pale eyes.

"I might not know much about seafaring, even though I hail from Naggor which had been a Black Ark once…" Karelion sighed. "But by Khaine, I know two things, and these two things are called cannons and handguns." He shifted uneasily on his chair. "Had I known that you've got too much courage for your own good, I would never have left Naggor."

"You left Naggor because your former liege discovered that you steal from him, Karelion." Tirael laughed. "You should be thankful that our lord Makareth has accepted you as a vassal because he had known you at the frozen Black Ark. Otherwise you would end up as a petty criminal in Karond Kar, collecting scars on your face for each theft you commit." The young liegeman shut his mouth and swallowed, startled by the angry look that Makareth threw him. "Forgive me, my lord."

Scars on your face meant you were a criminal in Karond Kar. Of course, wearing the attire of a Highborn weakened the impact somewhat, disdain being not shown openly, whispers and gossip only exchanged behind one's back. Makareth tried to chase away the bitter thoughts.

His retainers were not really respectful towards him. Makareth was hundred years younger than Karelion, and just ten years older than Tirael, and the circumstances in which they became his retainers were quite atypical.

Karelion, a tall and handsome Druchii with long, oily black hair that he usually wore in six braids, dressed in blackened chainmail and an always dirty red khaitan, had lost his title and honor when his former lord found out that he was a thief. He was stealing gold and jewels not only from his liegelord Danarius, but also from others from the city. The thief had fled from Naggor after Danarius had sworn to scalp him and then strangle him with his own braids, and had tried to hire on a ship in Clar Karond and later in Karond Kar. But with absolutely no experience as a corsair and only little experience in battle, he was not interesting for the the local captains. Hence, the Naggorite made his living with stealing and cheating at dice, and was caught doing exactly that on an evening when Makareth, finally healed after the tortures of the ritual and strong enough to walk alone and defend himself in the worst case, had paid his first visit to the city's gambling dens and Flesh Houses. Through pure coincidence, he saw Karelion struggling against the grip of the Flesh House's guards and recognized him. A handful of silver was enough to persuade them to release the Naggorite.

Karelion was thankful beyond compare, and after they had exchanged the news, Makareth offered to take Karelion in his service. He needed retainers anyway – now that Makareth had found out that Hadranir was less a madman that it appeared, but instead a constant threat, he needed people he could at least trust to not be interested in his death.

Tirael belonged to one of the two lower noble Houses that had been loyal to the Kythonarh family and had left Naggor to live in Karond Kar, preparing the arrival of Lykaon. He was the fifth son of his father, and growing up with rivaling brothers and sisters had made him paranoid, wary and stubborn. Makareth was reluctant to hire anyone from one of the loyal Houses, since they could be allied with Hadranir, at first.

But Tirael had opposed Hadranir in a quarrel about some of the slaves working on the building. Tirael had later explained that one of the Asur sculptors who had tried to earn Hadranir's benevolence had suddenly disappeared, and that that slave had belonged to Tirael's father; he had been actually the most prized possession, since his work earned the house most of its rather scarce income. But Hadranir was not someone with whom you could discuss such matters, and Tirael ended up bound to the iron bars of an empty nauglir cage, screaming his lungs out while Hadranir showed him the instruments that he planned to use on him.

To Tirael's luck, Makareth had gone to see how Rage, his Cold One, was doing, just in that moment. Makareth had used the occasion to smash his fist into Hadranir's flawless face. Even though he still didn't know how to get rid of his lord's nephew effectively without becoming a target of Lykaon's hate, and hence wasn't able to just kill him, no one said that a minor beating was forbidden. To his own surprise, Makareth won the fight. A skilled fighter with swords or on nauglir, Hadranir was not half as good when it came to unarmed combat. Makareth, on the other side, had had enough training in his childhood, growing up as a commoner on the dark streets of Hag Graef. Of course, Hadranir would never forgive Tirael for having witnessed his defeat; and exactly this fact made Tirael a trustworthy vassal for Makareth.

Still, Makareth knew that his retainers saw him rather as an equal and not as a proper Highborn. Though now being considered a bastard son of Lykaon, he was born as a commoner, and both Karelion and Tirael knew it. But respect or not, they had already proved their worth and loyalty, defending him against the various bands of robbers and hired murderers that had attacked him in the last year in Karond Kar.

Makareth knew that it was Hadranir hiring the attackers, but luckily the lord's decadent nephew was spending most of his money on drugs, paint, embroidered clothing and Asur slaves that never lasted long; and so not much of it was left to buy hired swords or crossbows, not even to speak of the services of a Temple Assassin. This way, the assaults came only once or twice a month, and were of rather low quality.

Tirael threw back the hood. His boyish features were showing an expression of concern. "My lord, Bretonnia would be much closer, and from what I have heard, it is usually a good hunting ground. Why this decision?"

Makareth grinned. "Who said that we won't pay a visit to Bretonnia on our way back?"

"No-no-no, my lord, you are avoiding the main question!" Karelion poured more wine for himself and Makareth. "What about the cannons and handguns?"

"We will try not to see any, that's all. It is not like we are going too far east into the Sea of Claws, where the bigger cities are located like Dietershafen or whatever it is called… or this Ems-something." Makareth scratched his head. He was still not very good with maps.

Someone knocked on the door. Makareth nodded to Tirael, and the young retainer opened the door.

The ship's chief mate stood on the doorstep. "We have land in sight. No patrol ships. Would you like to launch the assault?"

The landing boats moved swiftly over the grey waters, crossing the distance between the patch of flat, sandy shore in Nordland. The small fleet that consisted of three skiffs and the Harpy, a bigger ship of the class called corsair, was staying in deeper waters. To the right, the shore became steeper, growing into jagged rocks which were high enough to conceal a ship behind them. Fires blinked on the rocks. The ship's mate had explained to Makareth that the villagers in this part of the Empire often were beach pirates, their false fires mimicking lighthouses to lure ships onto rocks. Makareth felt slight disgust at such a primitive approach to the art of raiding, but it had given him an idea.

After the corsairs as well as Makareth and his retainers jumped into the shallow water and walked towards the rocks in darkness, carefully avoiding stepping onto the sand to prevent leaving traces, the boats returned to fleet.

A skiff was slowly sailing towards the coast.

Hiding in the shadows of the cliffs with the other Druchii, Makareth watched the ship almost hitting the rocks and turning sideways, her narrow hull driven precisely between two underwater rocks. Of course, they were not stranded - where clumsy human-built vessels would shatter, the skiff's small and slender form allowed her to pass easily. The Druchii corsairs were skilled sailors that saw in the dark, and what to the humans seemed to be death terrain was an easy job for Dark Elves.

The skiff's crew, only a dozen of Druchii dressed in simple woolen cloaks, mimicked panic, walking to the railing to look over at the rocks and climbing up and down on the masts.

Of course, there were more of them hiding in the hull and the sails, and seventy more Druchii hiding nearby, those who came with Makareth.

But the humans wouldn't know.

At dawn, the skiff seemed deserted. The humans that came up from the village just an hour later, carrying simple weapons like knives and badly made swords, were excited – they had seemingly never seen a ship like that before. They scattered on the rocks, shouting to each other in their crude language.

Makareth feared for a moment that his decision was wrong and that it would have been better to attack them directly, but then he understood what they were saying. They spoke Reikspiel.

"Never seen a ship like that! She's not norse, is she?"

"Maybe she is from Marienburg. They have all kinds of fancy things there. I mean, she doesn't look very stable, not really like a war ship."

"Well, maybe she still is. Look at all those spikes. But anyways, she seems deserted..."

"We have to pay attention, could be some people left on board!"

Fools, he thought, what a lucky day. The best about his decision was the fact that raids on the coasts of the Empire were much more rarely done. The chance that their prey would not instantly recognize them as Druchii, and hence not be prepared for what was coming, was greater.

The humans – Makareth counted forty-seven of them, probably all healthy adult males of the village, jumped onto the dark vessel, one by one, and began searching the ship for goods they could use. A couple of the men, those armed best, stood on the rocks around the skiff, looking out for a possible return of the crew.

In this moment, the Druchii attacked.

"Crossbows!" Makareth said, and the bolts flew through the air, felling those of the men that were keeping watch at the rocks, and about ten of those who were on the boat.

"Onto the ship!" He screamed, and the Druchii leapt over the rocks and the dead bodies, jumping over the railing and running towards the humans.

It was less easy than he had thought. He had hoped to just capture them, but they were indeed putting up a fight. The Nordlanders were tall and strong beasts, and they were less clumsy and fearful than he would have expected. Of course, they had learned to defend themselves against Norse, and this provided training; but at the end of the day, the Norse were just other humans. Now they would face a much more challenging threat.

Makareth landed on his feet lightly, and the human in front of him raised a rusty knife, but with one blow of his sword, the Druchii swept it aside and sent the man flying onto the planks. He ran across the deck, dealing blows with the broad side of his blade, trying to stun these animals that still tried to fight their much more agile and skilled foes.

At once, he was under attack himself, two of the humans swinging their badly made weapons. One of them almost hit him, and Makareth ducked under the horizontal blow, striking with his sword at the opponent's unarmed knee and crushing the knee cap. A pity, he thought while dodging the weapon of the second human, now it would be sacrificial pyres for this one. The wounded human stumbled, but his ally was still attacking Makareth with vigor, alternating between downwards blows and frontal strikes to pierce his opponent. This one was not bad for a human, a real fighter, young and healthy, but he had had maybe twenty years to practice, and Makareth had had at least twice as much. Dodging and parrying one blow after the other easily, almost in a dance, Makareth retreated, luring the human after him for the seconds that Karelion, who was running to his lord's help, needed to throw a net adorned with hooks and thorns over the stubborn animal. The human shouted in anger, struggling in the net.

More hooked nets and whips stopped the humans in their attempt to leave the boat again, and corsairs that were hiding in the sails dropped down onto those who were still fighting. Outnumbered and taken by surprise, the humans were soon disarmed, bound and brought into the bilge, and the ship moved astern, leaving the rocks behind.

Makareth stood on the rocks again, together with three dozens of the crew, and watched the skiff leave and the landing boats approach the coast again. He turned around to Karelion, grinning. "See, no cannons and handguns here. And now we can go to the village and get their women and kids."

They sailed west and south again, past the Wastelands and aiming for the coasts of Bretonnia, the bellies of the ships full of slaves. They had raided fourteen villages, and they had only taken with them what was worth taking – no old ones, no children too young for work or amusement. The rest was slain on the place; but they didn't set the villages on fire to prevent the news about them spreading too fast. There was not much else to get from the poor villages on the shores. They had avoided the bigger towns carefully, and sailed in loops and curves around the coast to get out of the way of the patrol ships, for months.

But slaves were what he had wanted, for they were the main merchandize of the famous markets in Karond Kar. Even the weaker ones who were not able to do much manual work would not be left unused and bring gold – there were sacrificial pyres burning all over the island, altars on which the Brides of Khaine would slaughter the unlucky humans, pleasing their bloodthirsty god. And his cargo was high quality for humans.

With his new tactics, tricking the coast pirates into thinking that the ship was easy prey and then striking out of cover, they were able to capture more strong and healthy males than usually, perfect for mines and saw mills as well as the arenas. When attacking a village directly, most of those usually got killed in battle. Of course, they never played the trick in two villages in a row, because of the chance that there was a survivor who would flee to the next settlement.

They only had space for about forty more slaves on the entire fleet, and as the summer was reaching its end, he decided to skip the stop in Bretonnia and sail directly to Naggaroth before the raiding season was over. The decision was greeted by the actual captain of the corsair, who was already calculating his own share, grinning, and declared that he would gladly continue working together with Makareth.

He was happy at first to have left Karond Kar. Sameira had married Lykaon just two days after the ritual, and as he left, almost one year later, she was already expecting. It hurt to see her, and the thought that soon there would be new, legitimate heirs, real children of Lykaon, was annoying. He had done so much to stay in the lord's favor, and it would be all for nothing; and he welcomed the distraction offered to him when Lykaon told him that he hired a fleet for Makareth' Hakseer.

Also, escaping Hadranir's steady attempts to get him killed for some time was relaxing. But by now, after three quarters of a year on sea, he missed Naggaroth. The wailing of the lost souls on the towers of Karond Kar; the scaly hide of Rage, his nauglir; the Flesh Houses and the good wine. And he missed Lykaon's company, too, though he thought himself a fool for doing so.

But the best thing about it all would be the fact that he would finally be taken seriously at Rakarth' court. A Hakseer was a coming-of-age ceremony for noble men, and the more successful a Druchii was with his Hakseer, the higher his status at court would be. But most of all, it meant independence. And it was time for him to free himself from the clutches of his new family.

They were almost in Bretonnian waters when they saw sails in blue and yellow on the horizon ahead.

If they continued, they would meet the Nordlanders ship; but if they turned back, they might find even more of them along the coast now that they had brought destruction over the northern province of the Empire. Going north and trying to escape along the coast where the Norse lived was even less sane.

On the other hand, it was only one ship. Their skiffs and even the corsair were faster, more maneuverable; and they were four. Maybe it would be best to simply sail past the enemy ship. Of course, it would mean that the humans could shoot their cannons. But from what he had heard about cannons, they had a greater range than the reapers, and trying to escape from the Nordlanders might still allow the enemy to shoot. If they sailed closer, though, they would also be able to reach the enemy with bolts dripping burning tar. Also, the carrack would probably shoot most of its cannons from its sides and rear, while the Reapers could be turned easily. And as the enemy ship was a carrack, its lack of oars would be a disadvantage once the sails would burn.

Without a sorceress that would change the weather to aid in sailing, the wind was against them. But designed to be able to sail windward, they gained speed, the oar slaves being whipped into frenzy to additionally help them move. Makareth was on the deck of the corsair, watching the carrack getting closer in worry. Were they not already carrying slaves, he would have ordered the Druchii to board the Empire ship, in hope to acquire one or two of the famous cannons, just to see how they functioned; but he had been reluctant to lose any of the precious cargo. Plus, the enemy ship was big; it was as big as the corsair; and a war ship. There would be hundreds of humans on it, trained, well-armed marines. It would be a really tiresome fight.

He made a decision and ran to find the chief mate and the actual captain of the Harpy.

Messages were passed between the Druchii vessels by flags and the sound of horns, and the corsair and one of the skiffs made a turn starboard, about a fourth of a circle, sailing side by side parallel to each other, increasing the distance between them and the other two skiffs. The remaining two ships turned to the left. They would pass the enemy ship on both sides in full speed and fire the Reapers.

The carrack sped on.

Destroy her sails, and she won't be able to follow us. Make her burn, and then we flee. Board only if the victory is already in our hands, but if possible, don't board at all. That was what he had said to the crew, and he hoped the corsairs would listen to him, because they were still too close to Marienburg, and a prolonged sea battle might attract more enemies.

The first burning bolt roared through the air, shot from the Harpy's citadel, and it hit the Nordlander's bow, wasting its fire. The skiff on the other side was more successful – its bolt struck on of the masts, burning tar setting the sail on fire.

"One more!" Makareth shouted, and the crew of the reaper wound the mechanism back frantically.

They were almost there when the second bolt flew, and this time it found its aim, crashing through the thinner railing diagonally, taking several humans that were crouching behind their cannons with it and spreading fire on the deck of the carrack.

And then the enemy was on their port, passing them by, and the world exploded into smoke and loud bellowing sound and the sudden impact that made the hull of the corsair shiver. Makareth threw himself onto the planks, and a fast prayer rushed through his mind: if I am to serve you, Dark Prince, then don't let me die.

He opened his eyes and looked into a dead face of a Druchii. A glance further down indicated that the corpse was only a half of a Druchii, and the horror of this fact shook Makareth awake. Scrambling onto his legs and crouching at the railing, he heard both Reapers of the corsair fire again, the sound faint in his almost deaf ears, and saw the burning missiles crash into the sails and the human mass on board of the carrack. The ship was already ablaze, but the humans tried to get through to their canons to shoot again, and some of them were firing their guns, trying to kill the Druchii corsairs that survived the assault of the canon balls.

Makareth heard one of the Druchii shout that their hull had breakage, and grit his teeth. "Stuff something into the holes, damn it!" He turned to the bolt throwers. They were still intact, but the Druchii crew that was trying to align them to make another shot just a moment ago was dead, struck down by the vicious guns of the humans. And the humans, though surrounded by flames, were already reloading the canons...

Then the flames on the enemy ship roared with bestial power, the black powder of the human weapons finally catching fire, humans crying out as the searing blaze enveloped them, and when they were finally past them, the carrack was a torch.

They continued full speed, the corsairs repairing the hull where four cannonballs had hit it on the way. They had had the incredible luck that none of the holes were under the water line – or maybe it was less luck than the fact that the second bolt of the Reaper had slain or stunned half of the cannoneers. The Harpy had only lost fourteen members of its crew, four oarsmen and ten slaves of the fresh cargo.

The skiff that had passed close to the carrack on the other side was less lucky. Its hull, broken in several places, quickly collected water, and even before they had sailed out of shooting range, the corsairs transported the surviving slaves onto other ships and left the skiff to sink into the depth. Luckily, the surviving enemies were more busy with rescuing themselves into the waves and didn't try to shoot at them anymore.

This night, Makareth enjoyed drifting to sleep, stretched out on the comfortable bed in the captain's cabin, enjoying the feeling of the silken sheets against his skin, and listening to the waves beating against the hull of the Harpy. Being so close to death and then escaping was frightening, but the outcome was not bad – they still had more that five sixths of the slaves. His share, even though he now would have to leave the captain more of the slaves than planned as compensation for the loss of one ship, would be remarkable.

Maybe he wouldn't sell all of the slaves, he thought. Maybe he would keep some of the prettiest females for a ritual. He felt thankful. After all, he had survived the cannon assault. Even more – the ship that he was on was hardly damaged at all. If this was not a sign that he had the favor of his deity, then what was?


	23. 23 - An Assassin in the House

**Part XXIII: An Assassin in the House**

_Or: Fourth Challenge_

They bound slaves to the masts of the ships as they approached Karond Kar, and watched in awe as the harpies descended on them, all beautiful faces, black feathers and cruel claws. It was so fitting, Makareth thought, the Harpy – as the ship was called – bringing back a sacrifice for her flying sisters.

They tossed another slave into the waves for the sea maidens. Everyone would get their share.

Even after the first sacrifices, the loot was incredible. Thousand and twenty-four slaves, each of them worth at least hundred and fifty gold – this was an outcome far from usual. No wonder – they had to kill much less of the usable villagers when playing their ship wreck trick. They had harvested even more, but many had died during the travel, the lack of space and supplies after the loss of the fourth ship taking their toll.

Still, the tax collector of Karond Kar had looked at Makareth with eyes wide with bewilderment.

"One corsair ship and three skiffs, and you bring back over thousand?"

Makareth nodded.

"How did you do it, summon them with magic?" The old Druchii shook his head and put away the abacus. "Well, five tenth for the Witchking, makes five hundred twelve. And then, of your share as a captain, which would be four hundred and ten… A tenth for Karond Kar. Makes forty one."

"Four hundred and nine." Makareth suggested.

The one-eyed administrative frowned. "What did you say?"

The young Highborn sighed. "I said that my share as a captain – four tenths of the loot – would be four hundred and nine. The tax would be forty slaves."

"You… I mean, dread lord…" The old elf rose from his seat, his fingers trembling as he pushed himself up, smearing ink on the parchments scattered over the table. "Look, I could just forbid you to unboard them… due to quarantine… You know, there has been word spreading about the plague that has hit the Empire lately…"

Makareth rolled his eyes. "Forty one then."

This left him with three hundred sixty eight, of which he would give sixty to the captain as compensation for the loss of the skiff. Even if he wouldn't get the full price for the slaves – and chances were that he would, since they were of fantastic quality – he was a rich elf now. Not bad for the first raid that he himself had lead.

Maybe he should invest the gold in a mine or a saw mill, he thought. On the other hand, he could just continue raiding. The captain had already asked him if he was interested in joining his crew or hiring his small fleet for another journey. If what the captain had told him was true, Lykaon had paid the man ten thousands in gold for the job; if this was the standard price, then Makareth could hire him several times. With a content smirk, he walked down to the docks again, accompanied by Karelion.

The line of slaves marched to the markets. Makareth told Karelion to get one of the slave drivers and quickly arranged for the thirty most aesthetically pleasing humans to be released from the line and chained together again. He would keep the best of them for himself – a blossoming female with flaxen hair – and give two others to Karelion and Tirael as a token of affection. Of course, they would also get their share of the gold from the sales, so the gift would be just a gesture. And the rest of the slaves he had chosen… Lykaon would be glad to have some ritual fodder. And the Dark Prince might be pleased.

"Bring them to the estate." He smiled at Karelion.

"What for?" Karelion tilted his head, greed flashing in his grey eyes. "Will you sacrifice them to the Lord of Murder?"

"No, I've got other plans for them. The Bloodhanded God doesn't care much for the quality of the victims. We will buy some flawed merchandize for cheap after we sold the loot, and send them to the pyres instead of wasting this perfect batch." He grinned as he saw Karelion's admiring expression. Everything that meant keeping more of the gold for themselves made the avaricious thief happy.

One day, Makareth thought, he might use Karelion's greed to introduce the fallen Naggorite into the worship of the One to whom Makareth' faith now belonged. After all, jewels and gold were beautiful things and pleasing to the Dark Prince, too. For a moment, pictures of Karelion sprawled on the floor in the ritual hall, his athletic body adorned with golden chains and jeweled shackles, flashed before Makareth' inner eye, and he found them pleasantly disturbing.

He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand, swearing under his breath. After that terrible ritual and his long illness his mind has been playing tricks on him. Yes, he had sworn an oath and that there was no way out; his soul belonged to the Lord of Desires. But losing control to such an extent was scary. It was not as bad when he had something to do – during the raid, fighting and success distracted him from the obsessive thinking about pleasures and beauty. Yet in the last days on the ship boredom was haunting him worse than ever before, and his daydreams were becoming more intense. Everywhere he looked he saw possibilities for enjoyment and debauchery. He was aching for it.

His handsome retainer arched a brow. "Is there something wrong, my lord?"

Makareth shook his head. "No, Karelion. But I would strongly suggest that you bring the slaves I chose to our stables now." If he was to participate in a ritual, I would have to order Karelion to get his hair washed first, it is really disgusting, he thought. And had to laugh at the absurdity of this thought, considering the fact that he had been on a ship for many months and was not a bit less dirty. He turned to Tirael. "Well, let's bring the rest of them to the markets, then. Let's hope we get good prices."

Tirael smiled. "Yes, dread lord." His eyes shone with delight. "Do you hear the screaming and wailing? I have missed it so much while we were at sea."

Makareth listened to the screeching of the harpies, the splashing and beating of the waves against the docks, the crying of the slaves marching down the road, the howls of the cursed souls whose skulls and bones decorated the black walls of the Tower of Despair; and he felt at home.

Lykaon seemed delighted to see him come back well and successful. He refused to be paid back the gold that he had spent on Makareth' Hakseer fleet, but gladly accepted the slaves that Makareth offered him to use in the next ritual.

The young Highborn had seen Sameira, too; she had been busy training her new beasts in the last year, and boasted about her success with the manticore. She looked even more gorgeous than before, her body still strong and toned but with newly acquired curves, her tight beastmaster attire underlining the feminine shape. Seeing her made Makareth angry and yearning like always and he had cursed himself for running into her at all. But it was hardly possible to live at Lykaon's estate without meeting her, since she spent most of her time there, and not at her own tower. He had also seen her children – tiny, helpless infants in the arms of two female household slaves, twin boys with purple eyes and identical, perfect little faces. He hated them the moment he took a look at them, and had to leave immediately to not let Sameira notice.

He had searched for Ruathac, but the Shade was nowhere to be found. At last he learned that Ruathac's time of service to Lykaon was up, and that he had returned to the Blackspines. This news had made him uncomfortable. Ruathac had always been a stabilizing influence; in the months that he had been suffering under the fever caused by the infection of his wounds, the Shade had come to see him from time to time, and it helped Makareth to fight against death. Ruathac had brought herbs that Ayandil, the Asur slave, could use for potions that would help against the fever and ague, but never spoken, his expression visibly that of disappointment. Still, his presence somehow gave Makareth hope that he still had a chance to keep his own will and make his own decisions against all odds; that maybe his oath to the sinister Power would be just a political move, that he would never be claimed as a mere tool. If he was lost, then Ruathac, who despised any kind of worship if taken too far, surely wouldn't care to aid in his healing? But now the Shade was gone, and it felt as a personal rejection.

From the four liegemen that had traveled with Lykaon originally, only Hadranir and Makareth were left. And the thought about it startled him. Hadranir - he would renew his attempts to get rid of Makareth soon.

Two days later, Makareth was terribly bored again. He sat in his chambers, listening to Tirael singing. The retainer had changed the verses of a legend from times before the fall of Nagarythe, replacing certain words with others, making the song more fitting for a Druchii.

Tirael, though young, was an eager follower of the Cytharai pantheon, introduced into the worship of Atharti and the Dark Prince at a tender age, and interested in things atypical for a Druchii, like art, music and poetry. His paranoid and distanced demeanor that he had acquired through his childhood always fell off like a mask when he was alone with Makareth whom he seemed to trust, and then he didn't hide his fascination with all things that appealed to the senses. But either too sated or too damaged by the carnal-minded amusements that most other cultists preferred and of which he had already seen a plentiful share, Tirael instead chose to exercise his intellect, skill and emotions.

"Are you going to Karond Kar dark," the boy sang, his fingers touching the strings of an Asur lute, "Blood and bones, hushalta and wine…" He looked at Makareth with his dark eyes, a playful look of a child, or maybe just seeking appreciation, and smiled while singing. "Remember me to an elf on an Ark, he once was an ally of mine…"

Makareth watched him quietly, reclining on a bench upholstered with blue velvet and drinking wine. Tirael's voice had a pleasant, warm sound, and even though the young liegeman's face was somewhat plain, he was a nice decoration for Makareth' chambers, with his slender, almost girlish form and still soft features, dressed in a velvet robe of rich green embroidered with silver snakes. With a little bit of blood over that pearl-white face and arms, he would look better though – red and green were a nice contrast, as complimentary colors. And maybe with a bit less clothing. And a bit more suffering in his eyes. Catching himself at such thoughts again, Makareth winced. Could he not just relax for a moment without these intrusive ideas? No, he answered himself, because this is not relaxation. It is ennui. Deadly dullness. Boredom.

He forced himself to throw his retainer a skeptical look. "Say, are you singing another one of your sentimental Asur songs there? Couldn't you compose something about battles or the like?" Makareth pulled the leash of the flaxen-haired human sitting on the floor at the side of his chair, and the girl crawled closer and dove under his robes.

He had been exceptionally kind to her; she had felt neither blade nor whip, and the only thing he had done to her was teaching her to obey simple commands and to please him with her mouth. He had no need to use her in other ways, and she was still a virgin – mostly because humans hardly interested him anymore, being to easy to obtain, but also because he planned to sell her on in the next weeks, and her being still new could raise the price. Some Druchii from the commoner houses would pay a lot for a pretty human female, since an Asur was out of reach for them anyway. But despite him being gentle with her, her expression was always one of fear when she looked up to him. It were probably the scars on his face that made him a scary sight; that and the ruin that the rest of his skin was.

With bitterness, he looked at Tirael who was so wholesome and unmarred despite having lived through more rituals than him and having had many siblings that tried to make his life miserable. The envy tortured Makareth, and he wasn't quite able to concentrate on the pleasant sensations that the slave's soft mouth gave him.

Tirael stopped singing and looked at his liege with amusement. "I like songs that speak of feelings… I hope one day to write a song that will bring my foes to fall on their knees before me and break out in tears while I slay them in hundreds…"

This approach to music was rather Druchii-like. Makareth laughed and pushed the human slave away. She was useless. He walked over to the window and looked outside, pulling the heavy curtain aside. Wind blew a few strands of his hair into his eyes, and he sneezed, closing the curtain again. "I think it is time for something more exciting than your songs." He went to the door and looked back, noting with satisfaction the hurt look on Tirael's face. With more suffering in his eyes, yes please, he thought smugly. "If someone asks – I am going to Hadranir's chambers to challenge him to a duel."

But who would ask for him, he mused; he was not exactly needed here. Still, before he could move on, he had to take revenge; and if Lykaon would hate him afterward, then so be it. Sitting in his chambers, doing nothing and waiting for Hadranir's next halfhearted attempt to get him killed was agonizing.

"What?" Tirael let the lute fall, the strings sounding all at once as it hit the floor. "Don't do this! My lord, please don't…"

But Makareth didn't listen to the boy, already on his way.

The guards let him into Hadranir's part of the estate without questions. He walked up the stairs and onto the first floor open balcony from which the doors to Hadranir's chambers lead. There were no obscene paintings to be seen anywhere, instead delicate silken shawls and expensive tapestries covered the walls. He traced the surface of the balustrade with his finger. It depicted a giant snake coiling in rings, and each scale on its body was precisely carved and painted in iridescent colors by the hands of Asur and dwarves. The sculptors had finished their work while he was gone on his Hakseer, and the results were breathtaking. Lost in the beauty of the sculpture for a moment, he stopped in his tracks.

And that was when he heard a familiar voice.

"Lykaon will be dining with his nephew tonight when the dusk has fallen. He usually sits at the head of the table: it is the seat closest to the window on the west side of the room."

He felt his heart skip a beat. This was alarming. It had been Ayandil's voice speaking; and it sounded pretty much like an instruction to an assassin. But if he allowed the Asur slave to notice that he overheard him, the assassin – who might still be hiding close by – would be informed that he was discovered and would chose another, unknown moment to strike.

He needed just a second to make a decision. He ran down the stairs again and out of the doors. Puzzled, the guards looked at him; maybe he would have to get rid of them later.

"My lord, High Sorceress Vestara summons you! She told me to ask you to meet her in her tower at the Convent at dusk." Makareth fell on one knee in front of Lykaon.

The Dreadlord sighed. "Why does she have to ask for my company every time when I've got other plans? I am almost inclined to believe Vestara is jealous now that I've married someone else." He stood up from the armchair in which he was sitting, reading a scroll of parchment, and tossed the scroll onto the floor. "Well… Would you be so kind to tell Hadranir that he won't enjoy my company tonight?"

"Yes, dread lord." Makareth hoped that Lykaon wouldn't notice how his hands trembled. He hated to lie to the lord; but he needed to get him out of the danger zone. He waited for Lykaon to leave the room and then stood up, breathing in deeply.

Now he just needed to find out who had hired the assassin.

Hadranir smiled amiably, opening his arms in a theatrical gesture of welcome. "My dear cousin, I am delighted to see you well! Though I must say I am surprised that you only appear at my door now, despite being in Karond Kar for a week already."

"I am only here to inform you that Lord Lykaon will not attend your meeting tonight. He is busy with more important affairs." Makareth spoke coldly, but his eyes were drawn to the delicious goods placed upon the table – roast and cooked meat in thin slices, spiced vegetables cooked in honey wine, fresh bread, apples from the gardens south of Clar Karond, and the best of all, crystal and blood red wine in carafes of fine glass. His mouth was watering. Despite the danger and the nervousness caused by it, his senses were out of control once again, and he had a hard time trying to distract himself from the enchanting smell of the food.

The lord's nephew noticed, and he laughed, his voice silvery and clear as always. "Such a pity – but then why don't you join me for the meal?"

Makareth glanced at Hadranir, and then at the table. There were only two chairs – that meant that Sameira wouldn't be here. Two chairs, one of them at the head of the table, and the other on its right side.

One of them at the head of the table. Closest to the window on the west.

Quickly, he sat down on the other chair, leaving the place where Lykaon would have sat for Hadranir. If it was Hadranir who had planned the assassination, then he would object now. Content with his own cleverness, he looked at his rival. "Why yes, I would be glad to!"

Hadranir nodded and clapped his hands, summoning the slaves that would serve them at this meal, and then took place at the table. He didn't seem to be worried.

Maybe it wasn't him after all; but who was it then?

An Asur slave, a brown-haired female, poured wine into their goblets and held out the trays with food out for them to chose the pieces most appealing to their taste. Makareth took an apple and bit in, thinking with regret that the cooked food could contain poison. He still didn't know how the assassin would work in this case, and he wanted to be careful.

The apple was fantastic. For a moment, he was lost in the sweet and sour taste, and closed his eyes, relishing the sensation, just to open them again, frightened by the thought that there could have been poison on the surface of the apple, too.

"I have heard you were more than successful with your raid." Hadranir chewed on a piece of meat absently. It probably had no taste to him, since it was almost two years since the last ritual, and the curse of the Cold One Knights, the permanent loss of taste, smell and touch, was now working again, remembered Makareth.

"Yes, I was. I have brought some slaves for the next celebration, too." Makareth felt sweat on his brow, and asked himself if it was the poison starting to work, or the knowledge that the assassin would sooner or later make his appearance that caused it.

The lord's nephew picked up his goblet, his expression changing from false politeness into genuine joy. "That is fantastic! Did you ask Lykaon when we will do it again?"

Makareth swallowed. "No, I didn't. But I suppose it will be soon."

"You didn't ask?"Hadranir's smile became cruel. "Well, I wouldn't be as patient if I were you... After all, in such a ritual no one is repulsed by your ruined face, and you can enjoy yourself freely. Masks are something wonderful, aren't they?"

Makareth's nails broke through the peel of the apple as he gripped it firmly, trying to keep calm. This insolent creature never missed an opportunity to hurt him. "I can enjoy myself freely all the time. Not all Druchii women are as superficial as those you prefer."

Hadranir opened his sharp-toothed mouth to answer, but he never made a sound.

Makareth watched him slowly sink forwards, a puzzled expression on his beautiful face. His cheekbone hit the table, the goblet fell from his hand, and the wine splashed onto the stone floor.

Makareth saw a crossbow bolt protruding from the back of Hadranir's head. He finally took a sip from his own goblet. The crystal wine was wonderful, a rich flowery taste. Then he put the goblet down, slid from his chair, ducked under the table, as if hiding from the assassin, and screamed for the guards.


	24. 24 - The Heart of a Traitor

**Part XXIV: The Heart of a Traitor**

_Or: A Riddle Solved_

He found the Asur at the slave quarters in Lykaon's estate. The slave was sleeping on a heap of straw – or seemed to be sleeping.

Makareth stepped closer, crouched down and gently shook the High Elf awake. "Don't try and pretend, Ayandil."

The Asur opened his huge blue eyes, stirring; his facsimile of sleeping was incredibly realistic. Seeing the Druchii's face, he smiled and fluently moved into a kneeling position. "I do not know what you intend to say with that, young master."

"Come with me." The young Highborn walked down the corridor between the rooms and cages. He cast a side glance at the new humans meant for the ritual in one of them, the females clinging to each other in fear, the few males trying to look grim and opposing. The view almost made them laugh. Why did these animals always try to continue this masquerade? They probably knew they were no match for the Druchii anyway, but they behaved as if they were people, despite the shackles and the iron bars preventing them from fleeing.

Ayandil's eyes went wide, and his face grew pale as he saw where Makareth lead him. "Why, young master?"

Makareth closed the door behind them. The torture room was not a joyful sight indeed, he noticed - it could need a bit of cleaning and repair. Bare stone walls, iron rings inlet in the walls, the sinister furniture of wood and metal, all of it was ugly and dirty, covered with layers and layers of dried blood. He watched Ayandil look from one promise of pain to another, the rack, the torture horse, the spiked bench, the dangling chains with massive hooks hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room, and the iron-bound chests, closed with heavy locks, in which the instruments – whips, blades, needles and other fine toys – probably were. The Druchii had the keys for the chests; but he actually hoped that he wouldn't need to open them. He felt too lazy after the good meal – he had finished the delicious dinner after all, after the guards had brought Hadranir's corpse out.

"Sit down." He ordered, pointing at the rack.

The Asur's gaze was pleading and defiant at the same time. Maybe he was considering fighting the Druchii; but Makareth was armed with one of his swords, and Ayandil had nothing with him but his collar and a light linen tunic. At last he obeyed and sat down on the edge of the rack, his weight still mostly supported by his feet.

"I don't want to torture you." Makareth eyed the slave calmly. "But if I have to, I will."

"Why, young master?" Ayandil asked again, his voice hardly more than a whisper. But he was looking away, his eyes cast down, and Makareth understood that Ayandil knew, perfectly well, what Makareth wanted to know.

He leaned on a wall. If Ayandil wanted to continue playing this game, he would oblige. "I have heard your voice in Hadranir's chambers, talking to someone about where Lord Lykaon would sit at the dinner table. Weird enough, the person who had taken this seat was killed just half an hour ago. Do you have an idea how this could have happened?"

The Asur looked up, suddenly worried, his eyes wide. "Lord Lykaon? Did the assassin kill Lord Lykaon?"

Makareth was surprised by this display of emotion. "And what if he did?"

"No!" Ayandil slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. "I didn't want the lord to die!"

The Druchii raised a brow. "Why did you give the directions to the assassin then?"

The slave straightened his back again. "You are lying, young master, aren't you?" He smiled tentatively. "If Lord Lykaon was dead, you wouldn't be as calm as you are now. You would be crying, clinging to the lord's corpse and tearing at your hair." His eyes dared Makareth to lose control and strike him.

Sadly, he is just too right about it, Makareth thought. At the same time, the idea of himself behaving like that amused him, probably because the good wine was doing its job to raise his mood. He grinned. "You want to be punished, don't you? Probably because you feel guilty of having brought Lykaon in danger. Or because you hope that I kill you before you confess."

"Is Hadranir dead?" The Asur smiled now too, not bothering to answer his interrogator's question. He was too damn impertinent. And they were going nowhere this way.

Makareth sighed. "Okay, enough of that. Lie down. "

Ayandil twitched, his face for a moment belying him. Again Makareth saw two different intentions fight against each other in the Asur's body language; the slave seemed to both yearn to defend himself and to want to obey out of habit. Where did he get all this insolence from? Two hundred years of slavery were seemingly not enough to break him. But Makareth didn't care – if the Asur wouldn't do what he said, he would simply beat him and force him to climb onto the rack. But he knew Ayandil would be clever enough not to try this out. He waited, counting to ten under his breath.

Then, with a deep sigh, Ayandil stretched out on the rack, arching his back uncomfortably to avoid the touch of the spiked iron roll placed across the rack in its middle.

Makareth closed the shackles on Ayandil's wrists and ankles. He smelled the Asur at once, his smell of fear and honey, mixing into the iron and decay stench of the torture room, and he felt sudden desire. He felt tempted to work the mechanism of the rack, to inflict pain on the slave, just to see if the smell of fear would become more intense. The urge burned in his stomach, and for a moment he forgot what they were here for.

The slave stared at him with astonishment as the Druchii leaned in and sniffed him, like an animal would. "Erm… Young master? Will you torture me now?"

The young Highborn took his time, closing his eyes and concentrating on the interesting perfume of the slave's skin, moving his face just an inch above the Asur's body for several minutes. Ayandil was much cleaner than the other slaves, no kitchen smells or foul odor of excrement tainting the perfect, healthy elf fragrance. The honey-like flavor probably was caused by herbal oils that the spoiled slave rubbed into his skin. There was something else there now, a salty, pleasant smell that replaced some of the sour sting that fear had evoked. Arousal, probably, he thought, and lifted the Asur's tunic to check; his assumption was right. Ayandil was probably trained to react positively to mild punishments and touch. Makareth had always suspected that Ayandil's role in Lykaon's household was not only that of a usual household slave but also that of a concubine, just like Ayandil's mother had been. He shook his head at the crazy image of Lykaon sleeping with both mother and son. It might be pleasing to the Dark Lord, but to Makareth it seemed slightly repulsive.

Well, why not. Lust could be as effective as pain – he had learned it in that fateful ritual two years ago. "Maybe. Or maybe not, if you tell me the whole story." Makareth pushed himself away from the rack, going back to the wall. He smiled playfully. "Or maybe I'll torture you in a way that you'll like. Maybe I will keep you as my personal slave if you cooperate."

Ayandil turned his face towards him. The reproachful look in his blue eyes told Makareth that he didn't believe the latter's words; but then he seemed to resign, breathing out audibly. "I will confess everything, young master. But please, please, tell me if Hadranir is dead first." He shivered, the strain of being bound in a stretched out position and arching his back all the time slowly taking its toll.

Makareth sighed. "He is."

The Asur laughed triumphantly, his body tension falling for a moment, and then stopped laughing abruptly when the iron spikes were driven into his back by his own movement, not damaging the spine, but hurting, even through the fabric of the tunic. He returned to his strained position, gasping.

"Now talk. Or I will simply leave you like that for the next two days." Makareth was slowly growing bored.

Ayandil stuttered. "I… I never intended to kill Lord Lykaon. But I have used their... Their intentions for… For my own revenge." He looked at Makareth pleadingly again. "Please understand me, master! I knew that you were in the house, and I have spoken loudly for you to hear, since I knew exactly how you would react. But had you not already behaved as I had hoped, then I would have been the one serving the food, and I'd make sure that it was Hadranir, and not Lykaon, who sat at the head of the table. I had a plan…"

Makareth stared at the slave, bewildered. "You wanted to kill Hadranir?"

"Yes… There is no elf in this world that I have ever hated more. He was raised by my mother… I told you about her already, she was the elf with patterns of blue and green flowers on her skin. Yes, you must remember her. She had told me that you had often called for her."

"Yes, I know. The one whom Hadranir killed, Lykaon's favorite slave. That event forced me to waste two years at the Watchtowers, in that imbecile's company."

"I was already in Naggor and in Lykaon's household before Hadranir was born. His mother, the wife of Lykaon's younger brother, died in childbirth; in the same night, my half-sister was born from my mother. My half-sister... a child sired by Lykaon, half Asur and half Druchii. And my mother lived on. Lykaon gave my sister to the Temple of Khaine in Hag Graef, to be raised as a Witch. I do not resent him for that – only this way would she escape the shameful life of a slave, and her heritage wouldn't be questioned. She is free, and she has a high status in your cruel society." The slave closed his eyes.

"Nice family story, but what does it have to do with your revenge?" Makareth tapped his foot, impatient. "Move on to the interesting part."

Ayandil groaned. "My mother was Hadranir's wet nurse, and later his caretaker. She loved him as if he was her own child, giving him all the affection that she couldn't give my half-sister. When he was little, he was always at her side, and his face was full of delight and happiness when he followed her around the house. But when he grew older, he forgot everything… She were no more than a plaything for him, and he would torture and rape her as heartlessly, just as he would do…" Ayandil bit his lip. "Others. He had no feelings of piety, no honor… And at the end, he killed her. Before my eyes. It took her hours to die."

"It was his right to do with both her – and you – ," Makareth commented with a disdainful look, appalled by the slave's haughty words, "as he pleased. You are nothing but property. He didn't do anything wrong. It has absolutely nothing to do with honor." Two hundred years, he pondered, yet not enough. This slave was dangerous. He would have to die; but not before he finished this story. "And you decided to take revenge."

"Yes… It was easy. My half-sister, she had somehow learned that she is Lykaon's child, and that I am her brother. The silly thing hates him for rejecting her, for giving her away. She contacted me, demanding that I help her to destroy Lykaon."

Makareth felt a cold shiver down his spine. "So it was never Niodar, Hadranir's poor brother, who betrayed Lykaon. It had been you. You have given the Temple information about the Lord's plans, you have told them that he is a sorcerer… You were responsible for the first assassination attempt."

The Asur moved his head in a short, shaky nod. "No... not that he is a sorcerer. I do not desire Lykaon's death. Indeed, I have heard of how slaves are treated in other households, and I consider myself lucky to have him as a master. I just hoped that they would kill Hadranir in the process of trying to get Lykaon. I have told them of the forbidden rituals, and of Hadranir's worship of Atharti and Slaanesh. I wanted to use my sister's hate for my own revenge."

The young Highborn had to smile at the slave's inventiveness and perfidy. He almost admired Ayandil – to keep such hate concealed in his heart through all the years seemed worthy of a Druchii. "So it was your half-sister who sent the assassin today."

"She did, yes… And I have planned to bring it all to an end tonight." Ayandil squinted his eyes shut, the effort to stay away from the spikes slowly becoming too much for him. "It would have been more difficult without your intervention, though. I have to thank you for that…" He grit his teeth as his back touched the iron again.

"You know that you will die for this, don't you?" Makareth walked closer and brushed a sweaty golden strand from the Asur's face. "Even though I would like to thank you too; your schemes have destroyed my worst enemy."

Blue eyes looked up at him, no fear in them anymore, just a cold resignation. "I am not afraid of death. I have taken my revenge, and I am done with this world." Ayandil turned his face away. "I always wanted to become a charioteer," he whispered.

Makareth sighed. Insolent, beautiful and damned, he thought. He wished he could keep the slave now; wished he had accepted Lykaon's offer back in Naggor. Ayandil had saved him on the road, when they were attacked by Dolus' men; and he had wanted to save Lykaon as well. The Asur had only hated Hadranir; and who could resent him for that? Makareth had hated Hadranir as well. He remembered the stories about Ulthuan that Ayandil had told him while he was shaken by fever, and the soothing touch of cool water on his inflamed skin. But it was simply wrong what the slave had done. "Tell me your sister's name."

Suddenly, the lock on the door glowed in blue iridescent light, and snapped open. Lykaon threw the door open. "What in the name of Chaos is going on here?" The lord was furious, his eyes burning with anger, his black lips a thin line.

"I found the traitor, my lord." Makareth turned to Lykaon and grinned, bitterly. "It had been Ayandil, all the time. He has done it all just to get rid of Hadranir."

Lykaon closed the door and walked to the rack, scowling. "Ayandil?"

The slave looked up at the Druchii lord, his gaze firm and determined, but his voice was weak as he answered. "Yes. I have betrayed you."

Makareth watched Lykaon standing there, realization of the truth slowly creeping onto the lord's pale face. The young Highborn felt the need to say something. "We still need to know the name of your sister, slave."

The green blazing eyes became darker, and the fury made place for a cold, disappointed expression. "So it was her after all, wasn't it? It was your sister behind the schemes, my precious daughter to whom I gave the possibility to lead a life of honor and ambition instead of being condemned to being a pitiful slave like you. We don't need to know her name – I know who she is." Lykaon shook his head, and his hands curled into fists. "She is the Hag of the Temple of Khaine, in Hag Graef."

Ayandil closed his eyes, unable to keep eye contact with the lord anymore. "Now that you know, master… Get it over with. Kill me for my treason."

"For your treason?" Lykaon's clawed hand gripped Ayandil's chin and turned the Asur's head to face him. "You have destroyed the life of both my nephews. You have helped the Temple of Khaine hunt me throughout decades. I had saved you and your mother from ending as a sacrifice on the altar of the Bloodhanded God, given you a comfortable life, better than any Asur would deserve, and you pay me back like that? Why did you do it?"

"He just wanted revenge, my lord." Makareth didn't know why he said these words; they sounded almost like an excuse. "He never wanted you any harm. It was Hadranir whom he hated."

"Well in this case, I will show mercy," the lord said mockingly, and let go of Ayandil's chin. "No, I will not kill you, slave. I sentence you to a long life. A very long life… And I promise you that it will be full of pain worse than you ever suffered at the hands of my poor nephew." Lykaon's hand closed around the handle of the rack's mechanism. "Why don't we start with what Makareth has prepared for us so kindly."

Makareth walked backwards till he found the door, turned quickly and opened it only as wide as needed for him to slide through, but before he could leave, Lykaon called him back.

Trying to ignore the screams and sobs of the slave, Makareth waited. "Yes, my lord?"

Lykaon ceased to turn the handle of the mechanism. It didn't turn back, stopped by a ratchet, leaving Ayandil stretched to an impossibly taunt position on the rack, blood drawn by the iron spikes in the middle of the rack dripping onto the floor. Stuffing a rag into the Asur's mouth to keep his cries muffled, the lord spoke calmly in his dark voice. "I wonder why you have lied to me, Makareth."

The younger Druchii almost choked on his one words. "I thought that… I suspected that... I mean, I…" He looked around helplessly, trying to think of a cunning response, but the only answer that came to his mind was the truth. "I was afraid that you wouldn't listen to me if I told you. I wanted you to be out of the assassin's reach for sure, my liege. I don't want you to die."

"And you think that I am a naive babe that cannot look after himself? Couldn't you imagine that I would find some kind of solution to the problem without risking Hadranir's life?" Lykaon went to one of the iron-bound chests. "The keys, Makareth."

Makareth walked over to the lord, his knees trembling, and held out the keys to him.

Lykaon caught his wrist instead of the key-ring, pulling him close and looking him directly in the eyes. "If you worry about my life so much, then maybe you should make sure that such an assassination won't happen again." His hissing whisper was mocking and serious at the same time. "I will ask Vestara to confront the Hag, because if I go myself, they will try to kill me on the spot. Even I cannot take it on with a whole Temple. But Vestara is a Sorceress, and as such wed to Malekith; even the Witch Elves will not damage his property thoughtlessly. How about you accompany her?"

Makareth nodded, hypnotized by the green fires.

"And by the way…"The Dreadlord reached out with his other hand, and briefly stroked Makareth' neck over the hadrilkar with his claws. "Well done." He turned away, took the keys and opened the chest to look into it, visibly pondering which tool of horror to use on the Asur first.

Makareth thought he heard the screams of the Asur through the whole night; but it might as well have been his imagination. He couldn't sleep, and as dawn drew grayish and rose shine around the black spires and battlements of Karond Kar, he called for Tirael and asked the young liegeman to sing him a lullaby.

"Tell him to make me a khaitan of skin…" Tirael' voice echoed in the room, its youthful, high sound and the lute's clear music oddly harmonious with the cries of the harpies and the eternal lament of the dead slaves outside the open window. "Blood and bones, hushalta and wine…" The Asur's screams disappeared from Makareth' mind, and instead the whispering voice was there again, saying that he was close to the truth, and that soon he would understand…

"That has not on elf, not on animal been," sang Tirael, "Then he'll be an ally of mine…"

...

"Are you going to Karond Kar dark

Blood and bones, hushalta and wine

Remember me to a man on an Ark

He once was an ally of mine

...

Tell him to make me a khaitan of skin

Blood and bones, hushalta and wine

That has not on elf, not on animal been

Then he'll be an ally of mine

...

Tell him to forge me a chainmail of gold

Blood and bones, hushalta and wine

That has not been mined and has not been sold

Then he'll be an ally of mine

...

Tell him to find me an acre of land

Blood and bones, hushalta and wine

Between Naggaroth and Ulthuan's strand

Then he'll be an ally of mine

...

Tell him to raise there an army of dead

Blood and bones, hushalta an wine

And when he has them to victory lead

Then he'll be an ally of mine

...

And if his efforts are still all in vain

Blood and bones, hushalta and wine

He shall take the sword from the Altar of Khaine

Then he'll be an ally of mine

...

Tell him to drown the Asur in his hate

Blood and bones, hushalta and wine

And then to come back, I'll eternally wait

And he'll be an ally of mine..."

...

"Wait," Makareth murmured, "Is it about the Blighted Isle?"

Tirael grinned contently. "Yes, my lord." He struck another chord, his dark eyes gleaming happily. "You really have been listening to the words!"

Makareth turned onto his other side, pulling the fur blanket over his shoulder. "Whatever. Just continue singing." He closed his eyes, hoping the sleep would come soon. The task of accompanying Sorceress Vestara to Hag Graef, the city where he had been born, was worrying him.


	25. 25 - Home, Bitter Home

**Part XXV: Home, Bitter Home**

_Or: Fifth Challenge_

Cobble stones and walls of darkness. Town build around the central palaces which pierced the narrow band of the pale skies with their sinister towers, threw myriads of lean black bridges across it. Commoner quarters with their unadorned slate gray stones, labyrinth roads running through them like branching rivers of despair. Poisonous air, clouds of acid vapor and putrid smoke rising from the mines and forgeries. Dirty, old, industrious, stripped of all kind of glamor that may once have inhabited it; destroyed by the movements of beings older than the elves of Naggaroth, tunnels under it ever shifting, ever growing; rebuild by hands of slaves, again and again.

How he hated it.

Vestara called out to him from the chariot. He slowed down without using spurs or reigns, Rage easily obeying his voice, and fell back in the column till he was on the same height.

The Sorceress drew back the dwarf hide curtain that obscured her from view of the people on the street. "Lord Makareth… Do you remember what I have asked of you on the ship?"

He nodded, bowing his helmeted head. "I remember, Sorceress. I am to ask my old family for quarters for you. I still wonder why you don't stay at the Convent. It is certainly more secure and also more comfortable. You cannot imagine in which poverty my former family resides. Except for my aunt… But I don't think she will agree to do anything I ask her to."

"You forget that you are considered Highborn now; they will be delighted to offer you their chambers. You still have to get used to your new power, my dear Makareth." She laughed, throwing her head back and showing her white, smooth neck above the heavy cloak she had drawn around her voluptuous shape. Makareth remembered biting into the soft skin, in her cabin on the ship, and memories filled with lust swept the bitter thoughts of his old family away.

The Sorceress looked at him again, her midnight eyes serious and cold again. "Ask your aunt. Now."

He rode down the street, Karelion and Tirael on their nauglir behind him, always attentive to possible dangers. The estate of his aunt that had appeared impressive and huge to him before, was now just a black building with badly made reliefs and crude balconies on it, not even the size of his own part of the Kythonarh tower in Karond Kar. He gave his lance to Tirael and dismounted, leaving Rage on the street. The reptile crouched and turned its head after its master, waiting for him to return.

The guards – from the resemblance to his aunt he concluded that they must be distant relatives of her – looked at him with interest. "Welcome to the house of Raguna Coldheart, dread lord. Have you come to inspect the new talents of the family?"

He was confused. "New talents?" Then it occurred to him – the pennon on his lance showed not only the runes of House Kythonarh but also the sign of Karond Kar, the city of the Beastmasters. All Beastmasters spent their years of training in the Tower of Despair. When he had been little, his aunt was always talking about her son – the unlucky boy that got eaten by one of the nauglir he attempted to tame – going to Karond Kar after he was found worthy of becoming a Beastmaster. he grinned. "No. I wish to talk to the Beastmistress about other matters."

One of the guards bowed. "Please come in, dread lord. I will inform Mistress Raguna of your arrival. How should I introduce you?"

"Makareth, son of Lykaon, of House Kythonarh, from Karond Kar." He walked through the door held open for him, looking back at his retainers and gesturing Karelion to follow him. Tirael would stay with the Cold Ones.

The hall was decorated with tapestries depicting the various beasts of Naggaroth, nauglir, hydras, manticores. The tapestries were beautifully made – it seemed that his aunt has multiplied her wealth in the last years. He heard padding steps on the stairs that lead from the side of the hall up to the second floor, and looked up.

A face of a child stared at him with admiration, a boy not older than thirteen or fourteen, with the sharp, unpleasant features of his aunt. Probably the youngest son, maybe the new talent, as the guards had put it. As the boy noticed that the Cold One Knight was looking at him, he ran back upstairs.

The shrill voice of his aunt echoed in the hall. "Welcome, dread lord! How can I serve you?" Dressed in tight leather attire similar to Sameira's working clothes, the Druchii female approached him. "Have you come to buy a well-trained nauglir, or would you like me to tame new slaves for you? I am the best Beastmistress of Hag Graef." She eyed him, standing seven sword lengths from him, swaying lightly back and forth on the toes of her high boots adorned with many metal buckles.

She didn't lack certain grace, he thought, something he had never noticed before, when she was still an intimidating, dangerous relative for him, the most powerful elf in his father's family. His former father's family, he corrected himself. He was now Lykaon's son, to the world and the court, and it didn't matter that he was not related to the Lord of House Kythonarh by blood. He took off the helmet.

She gasped, stepping back, her face changing several expressions in mere seconds, from surprise to horror to awe to slyness.

He smiled coldly. "I am asking for quarters at your house, Beastmistress Raguna, for me, my warriors, my servants, my Cold Ones… and for my lady."

"Is that you, Makareth?" Her gaze moved up and down his armored body, taking in the flawless black armor, the long chain mail coat called dalakoi, the runes of a Highborn House on his khaitan and the horrible scars on his face.

"Yes, Beastmistress Raguna. It's me. But you should address me as 'Lord Makareth'." Delight filled his heart when her expression changed to yearning envy.

Then she melted into amiability. "Of course, Lord Makareth, my dear relative, you can stay at my house as long as you wish. Will you dine with me tonight? I must confess, my curiosity is heated beyond compare." A greedy look crept onto her face. "I guess you have already paid a visit to your father, Lord Makareth? He will probably be able to return his debt of thousand gold to me, now that glory shines upon his family."

Makareth shook his head in disgust. "He is not my father, Beastmistress. My father is Lykaon Kythonarh, Dreadlord and Highborn at the court of the mighty Drachau Rakarth." He unwound the cord binding the leather pouch to his belt and threw the bag across the room. It opened when it hit the floor, spilling golden coins over the gray tiles. "Two thousand gold. I suspect this would be enough to pay back your brother's debts to you; for the rest of it, provide us with chambers, stables and food."

She was proud enough to not start collecting the coins in the same instant. But her eyes shone. "Of course, dread lord, of course!"

"Then I am going to get my lady and the rest of our entourage. Tell your servants to prepare the quarters." He put the helmet back on and walked to the doors. Karelion, following him, bowed to the Beastmistress, who stood there, stepping from one foot to another impatiently, waiting for the knights to leave so that she could finally grasp the newest addition to her wealth with her hands.

Vestara reclined on his bed, propped up on her elbow. She still wore the richly embroidered long gown and the dark blue khaitan with the runes of House Kythonarh on it, and her head lacked the usual metal crown of a Sorceress. She was utterly believable in her disguise as Makareth' consort. She had even cast him looks of jealousy during the meal when Raguna or one of the Beastmistress' daughters were too offensive in their attempts to win his attention.

It had been amusing to be fawned over by several Druchii women, even though he knew that at least on Vestara's side it was just a part of the masquerade. Still, Hadranir had been wrong – scars were no obstacle as long as you were rich, dangerous and provided an unspoken promise of status. He waited for his new favorite slave, a young Asur girl with slanted green eyes, to unbuckle his armor, put it onto a stand, and then unlace the chainmail. He sent the girl away with a nod and walked to the bed. He was a bit annoyed by the fact that she would die tomorrow – she was one of the slaves they intended to offer the Temple for the sacrifice.

Vestara looked at him smugly. "Well done, my dear lord. Now the damn Witch will be unprepared for my visit. Tomorrow, I will go to the Temple and demand an audience."

Makareth took off his khaitan and robe. He felt the Sorceress looking at the hundreds of scars crisscrossing his skin, at the ugly remains of the burns on his stomach. He didn't really like it when she did that, but after she told – and showed – him that his scarred body excited her more than the smooth skin of others, he didn't object anymore. Her worship of the Dark Prince had been so prolonged and so intense that she yearned for new kinds of beauty, for the unusual. He sat on the bed, pulling off his boots. "How are you planning to get to her?"

The Sorceress crawled up to him and embraced him from behind, her hands stroking over his chest and stomach, tracing the scars. Her full lips touched his ear. "First of all, you are not in any case to attend the Drachau's court. It is your duty as a Highborn to introduce yourself when you visit the city, but if we go to the Temple early in the morning, we might be on our way back before anyone at court hears about us being here. We will go the Temple to offer some slaves for the sacrifice, like I already mentioned. And this is when I will tell one of the priestesses that I have important news considering one of the Hag's enemies." Her hand slid down, and he had to suppress a moan.

He turned his head, raising his hand to bury it in her black locks, and kissed her violently, biting into her red lips as if they were some delicious fruit.

She pulled away from the kiss, writhing out of her khaitan. "We haven't discussed everything about tomorrow yet. Have patience." She looked at him with amusement as he pulled down his pants and slid under the covers of the bed. "Do you know that your so-called relatives don't look like you at all? You have none of those too sharp-faced, twisted features. They all look like mice." She took off the embroidered robe and stretched, her skin shimmering in the light of the dim light cast by the brazier, living marble in the darkness.

"It must be the scars that make me look different." He looked away from her, trying to not think about the pleasure that they would surely share tonight, concentrating on the dusty draperies around the bed. If she wanted him to listen, she should better start talking now, he thought.

"No, it's not the scars. I remember very well how you looked without them." She leaned down, the point of her tongue gliding over the scar tissue on his cheek, a confusing sensation. "Tomorrow, you have to stay at my side no matter what. Once I have made my move, assist me. She won't give up easily."

He pulled her down, on top of him, and rolled over, pinning her to the bed, the silk blanket still between them. "Is that all? Have you finished?"

Her midnight eyes stared through him, and he felt a wave of emotion that was not his at once – fear, despair, devotion to a fate that would lead to the accomplishment of a greater pattern through one's own death. He pushed himself up on his arms, looking at her face, and understood that she knew she would not survive the encounter with the Hag. He wondered if he would. He wondered why they did something as insane at all.

He smirked. At least the Dark Prince gave them a chance of an agreeable last night.

The statue of the armored god, four armed, with a terrible face that radiated both perfection and blood-crazed fury, shimmered in brass, iron and black marble at the end of the hall. Blood was pouring from the altar at its feet, and upon it was a figure of a barely dressed woman, crouching like a predator before a jump at its pray. Her hand was raised to her mouth, her teeth tearing at a heart she was clutching, the corpse of the former owner of the heart already swept from the stone.

She was magnificent. Her white mane was dipped in red, and her pale skin had an orange tint to it, as if she was burning from the inside; maybe it was the fire of the braziers placed at both sides of the altar that gave it this color. She swallowed another bite, and looked up. Her chin was smeared with blood, but Makareth couldn't help but notice that her features were fine and youthful, smooth lines and softened angles; a face that looked so much like Ayandil's that it felt wrong to see the bloodshot, brass colored eyes in it instead of the deep blue.

Around her, a dozen of other Witch Elves stood, the daggers in their hands seeming a natural part of their bodies, willowy and steel-hard and ageless beauty. They reminded him so much of the harpies in Karond Kar that he was tempted to believe the legend that the latter really were the souls of the Witch Elves who fell in battle. Hungrily the priestesses of Khaine eyed the line of the slaves that were lead into the hall by Makareth and Vestara.

It had been both easier and more difficult than he had imagined so far. Once Vestara had mentioned that she had important news for the Hag, the Witch Elf that had spoken to them about the sacrifice had nodded and led them to the door where she still stood now.

But there were too many Priestesses of Khaine in this room. He had no idea what Vestara planned to do about that.

The double door behind them slowly closed. It was to him as if they were locked up in the hall. For a moment, he thought that they were just another sacrifice to the Bloodhanded God, like the slaves they brought.

"I see you brought more hearts for our Lord." The Hag's voice was husky and dark. She slid from the altar and walked two steps towards them. The dagger in her hand drew half a circle in the air as she waved her hand, gesturing for the other priestesses to collect the first of the slaves and bring him onto the altar.

"No, Hag. I have come to talk to you." Vestara raised her chin.

Makareth was startled by the Sorceress' boldness. The anticipation of battle began to tingle in his limbs, and unconsciously, he gripped the handle of his sword.

"Talk to me?" The Hag hissed, seemingly discontent with the idea. "What about?"

"About your father, Lykaon the Enchanter." The Sorceress raised her hands and spoke one loud word, and a ray of black smoke erupted from her hands, hitting the Hag and hurling her onto the altar.

The Witch Elf screamed in anger. "You dare to speak of this fallen creature in this sacred place?" She didn't seem to feel the pain of the impact. With one fluent movement, she rose on her feet and leapt towards Vestara, her dagger aiming for the Sorceress heart.

Makareth drew his sword, throwing himself between Vestara and the Hag, and parried the dagger. The impact was so great that he was not able to stay on his feet and fell backwards, the Hag following his movement. Her hand with the dagger went down again, this time seeking to pierce his abdomen. Makareth frantically moved his arm down, bringing the silversteel vambrace between the dagger and his body. The blade-like fighting spines on the outer side of the vambrace caught the dagger between them, and sitting up, he pushed his elbow against the Hag's stomach, throwing her off.

She rolled over to one side and stood up again, springing into battle with unearthly quickness. Her attack was directed at Vestara again, and the Sorceress screamed another spell as the dagger lashed through her khaitan at the height of her lower ribs.

The young Highborn scrambled to his feet and ran towards them, but a wave of screaming faces, naked skin and sharp steel engulfed him. The other Witch Elves had joined the fight, seeing that their High Priestess wouldn't succeed alone.

A blow from the back hit him, the dagger trying to bite through the plates of his backplate. He answered with a backhanded strike, his sword cutting through unarmored flesh, and drew his sword forwards again in a wide circle, trying to get some distance between himself and the Khainite women. It worked; the longsword's greater range brought two of them down, deadly injured, before they could land their blows, and the rest danced away from him and tried to attack from the back again.

For a moment, he saw Vestara and the Hag. Hit by Vestara's magic, the Hag seemed slower, her movements less dexterous. The Sorceress, who was reciting a long spell, circling around the altar to bring it between her and the Hag, seemed to have a chance. But crying out an angry prayer to Khaine, the Witch shook off the influence of magic and flew over the stone, and with horror, Makareth saw the dagger sink between Vestara's breasts, and the Sorceress staggering to the floor. The powerful spell finally escaped her lips, becoming a black cloud of wings and strange thorned limbs, and enveloped the Hag, who struggled against it, screaming in sudden agony.

They were fast, faster than any warrior he had fought against. Their limbs were a blur, their faces grimaces of hate, their daggers snakes darting out from the shadows. When he parried a blow, another one was already striking, and he swung both his swords around as fast as possible, struggling with the weight of the armor. When he dodged, they followed, now well aware of his range and always moving out of his reach when he lashed out with the swords. They would tire him this way, and then he would become an easy prey. His armor held till now; but sooner or later, he thought, gritting his teeth in another futile attempt to parry, it won't anymore. And if they hit anything not covered by armor, he'd be dead from the poison on their blades anyway.

Another strike was aimed for his head, intended to blind him. In the last moment, he threw himself back, raising his sword and impaled the Witch Elf flying towards him by her own momentum on it. His sword was caught in her flesh, going through her stomach and emerging on the back, and with an insane grin, spitting blood, she gripped the handle and his hand holding it and pushed the blade in deeper.

With horror, he understood that she wanted to disarm him with her last deed. He let go of the long sword and was hurled backwards by the force he had applied to rip it out a second before. He heard two Witches scream and jump aside behind him. One of them suddenly quivered and slid to the floor; the other ran towards him, only to be struck down from behind.

He couldn't believe his eyes. Of the six Witch Elves that were still alive, one was fighting against her sisters! Motivated by the sudden aid, he pushed himself up and attacked again.

His blades dripped blood onto the floor. It was all finished – the Witch Elves were slain, scattered on the floor of their desecrated Temple, the Hag lying in front of the altar, blue-faced from the suffocating death that Vestara's spell brought her. The slaves, some of them still alive through sheer luck, were shivering in a corner of the hall.

The lone Witch Elf that had turned against her sisters stood there, her body trembling not in exhaustion or fear but in ecstasy, her eyes gleaming, her skin blushed. It was the same elf that had lead them into the hall; the one whom Vestara had spoken to when they had entered the Temple. Now it didn't seem that much of a coincidence that the Sorceress chose this particular priestess. The Witch Elf caught her breath. "Quick, get the Sorceress. You have to be out of here before the rest of the Temple is alarmed!"

Makareth looked at her in disbelief. "Who are you?"

She furrowed her brow. "Do you want to die? Hurry!"

The young Highborn picked up Vestara carefully. The Sorceress had pulled the dagger out of her chest, clutching it in her hand now, and her khaitan and robe were drenched in blood. But she was breathing faintly.

Vestara's weary midnight eyes caught a glimpse of the remaining Witch Elf. "Thank you, Bride of Slaanesh," the Sorceress whispered.

The Witch blew Vestara a kiss. "No, I have to thank you, my dear ally. Through your intervention, I will soon become the new Hag of this Temple... And I will be on your side when you wage war against our enemies."

She led them behind the statue. Two doors, iron-bound and heavy, were visible now, framed by statues of Brides of Khaine in their deadly dance. But the Witch didn't open any of the doors; instead, she crouched, pulling at a ring inlet in the floor; and opened a trap door; stairs of black, rough stone were leading below into the bowels of the city.

The white-haired woman grinned. "The stairs leads to the catacombs, into the subterranean corridors under Hag Graef, from where you can even enter cellars of buildings. We use this way to break into houses on Death Night sometimes. It will be easy for you to escape through the corridors. I hope you find the way out of the tunnels by yourself. Sadly, I cannot go with you - I must stay and announce the murder of my sisters by the hand of these vile cultists to the rest of the Temple." Her hand gestured to the slaves huddled in the corner. "Of course, by the time my sisters enter the hall, they will be rid of chains and attacking me with the weapons of my slain sisters…" She winked.

Makareth thought for a moment that they could be trapped in a dungeon belonging to the Temple instead, that the Witch Elf was lying; but then again, why would she have helped them in the first place if she intended to get them killed. She was an ally of the Cult, and for a moment, to trust her seemed the best bet.

Already there was a tumult outside the hall, shrill voices and banging on the double doors through which they had entered earlier.

He ran down the stairs, carrying Vestara; he had to bend his back and neck down to not hit the low ceiling at the beginning, but the further down he descended, the easier it was to go upright. The trap door was closed behind them, and darkness flooded the staircase. Even Makareth' elven eyes could not see in complete darkness. Slowly, he felt his way forwards, touching each step with his foot before he shifted his weight onto it.

Soon the stairs ended and they were in a corridor. Vestara whispered something weakly, and one of her arms left Makareth' neck, a witchlight igniting in her palm. Her face was terribly pale in the greenish shine. "To the left," she whispered again.

He took the next possible way, another dark tunnel leading from the one they were in, and followed her instructions, trying to memorize the way they went. The instructions came with a weaker and weaker voice; at last, the Sorceress coughed painfully, and a thin trickle of blood ran from her lips.

"Wait..." Vestara coughed again. "Put me down. Put me down!"

He looked into her eyes and there it was again, the feeling that was not his but Vestara's; she was showing it to him, her pain, the fatigue and the knowledge that death would come inevitably, but underneath all this darkness, there was joy, and the silent celebration of a triumph. No fear or despair anymore. He knelt down, carefully leaning her against a cold wall, knowing that no matter how fast he was now, she wouldn't make it out of the tunnels living.

She smiled, lips smeared with her own blood. "Venomous blades. There is nothing that will save me now." The witchlight was still glowing upon her hand, but Makareth saw it flicker. She was shivering, he noticed only now; her face was taking on a bluish tinge. "Go on without me, the poison is already starting its ugly work and I cannot have you see me in any way less than… Less than beautiful. " Vestara coughed again. She was shaken in a fit of sudden fever, and the witchlight flickered again; her hands curled into involuntary fists, and the greenish fire disappeared.

He was taken by surprise by the sudden blackness around him. Frantically, he tried to pick the Sorceress up, even though he was sure that she couldn't survive even if they got out fast enough.

"Go!" Vestara screamed, pushing him away. "Go! Don't watch me now! Don't listen!" Her fingers scratched at his face, and she writhed on the floor of the corridor, desperately trying to escape his grip. At once she stopped struggling. Her voice, trembling, turned into a malicious hiss. "If you don't go, I will use the last of my strength to strike you down with a spell. I mean it." He heard how much effort it had cost her to speak, but he didn't doubt that her will was still strong enough to allow her to work sorcery.

He gave up. Letting go of her, he backed off to the wall, feeling his way with his hands along it, till he found another entrance to his left.

Her screams were echoing in the tunnels, but after a while, they were gone; either because he was gone too far into the labyrinth or because she was dead.

He was walking for hours; at some point, he thought he would never find a way out. His mind was already playing him tricks, and he heard voices and saw flashes of colors in the darkness because of the monotony, when he finally saw light shimmering underneath a wooden door. If this was a cellar of a house, he thought, he would maybe have to fight his way out; nonetheless, it was better than being trapped in darkness forever.

The door gave in as he threw himself against it. Behind it was a simple wine cellar, illuminated by a weak witchlight lantern. Two pairs of surprised eyes looked at him; human eyes. Slaves, a male and a female, both rather young and healthy, were embracing each other between the wooden kegs, their dirty bodies naked; probably hiding their relationship from their masters in excuse of some work in the cellar.

Makareth walked towards them and pointed at them with a sword. "Which family owns you?" he spoke calmly.

"Family Duskbird, master." The girl had reacted faster, and her Druhir was not bad.

"Look… I will let you both live despite your clearly insolent behavior; but you have to tell me if your masters are at home and how I can get out of the house as fast as possible."

"Master Duskbird is not at home; otherwise we wouldn't have dared… But his daughters are here, though they are busy supervising the weaver slaves." The girl disentangled her limbs from the embrace. "You can follow me, master; I'll show you the way out without you meeting them." Her gaze had a conspiratorial quality to it, but she was trembling. It was clear that she only partly believed him that he would let them live, but she probably hoped that at least the human boy to whom she felt affection would survive if she led the stranger upstairs.

House Duskbird, commoners that had a small business specialized in wool and linen clothing - he remembered them; they lived not far from his old home, and were loosely related to his mother. Not running into the members of the family would certainly be better, as they might recognize him, even with the scars.

Makareth smiled. "Do so." He wasn't planning to kill any of these two – this would leave more traces, and he didn't want any more enemies, not even from a commoner house. He had to leave Hag Graef first. If he left the slaves alive, they would do everything to conceal what had happened, repair the door as well as possible, and keep silent; telling the truth would only raise suspicion to why they were not killed and make them possible tools of treason in the eyes of the owners.

He thought about his incredible luck as he walked down the street, hand on the hilt of his longsword, ready to fight off any possible robbers hiding in the shadows of the buildings. Or had it been more than mere luck? Two slaves, driven to indulge in lust just in the moment that he stumbled into the cellar of the house they belonged to, as if positioned there to guide him onto the street without being noticed by their owners… Was this really a coincidence?

"Thank you, Prince of Pleasure," he whispered, smiling to himself.

They left Hag Graef the same day.

The ship was swaying gently, but it didn't lull him to sleep again. The events at the Temple and the hurried departure from Hag Graef had left him on the verge of nervous breakdown; even now that they were sailing back to Karond Kar, Makareth was aware of each tiny sound, waiting for an assassin to strike out of the shadows or for the Temple Guard to come for him.

He had tried to take some rest, alone in the cabin now that Vestara was dead. He didn't want to have Karelion or Tirael here with him; they didn't know what he had done and he was afraid he would somehow betray himself. The terrible impact of the deed lasted on him like a heavy rock.

Vestara was dead; but she had taken the High Priestess of Khaine with her. And Makareth remembered, shuddering, how he had slain the Witch Elves who were trying to protect the holy hall of Khaine. The only thought that comforted him was that the Bloodhanded God did not really care whose blood was spilled. Still, religious fear that was indoctrinated to him from his earliest childhood bit into his heart like thousands of insects, invoking pictures of the punishment that the God of Murder might bestow on him for the annihilation of his Brides. A part of him told him that it was ridiculous to think this way.

But the dreams that he had in those brief moments when exhaustion had taken its toll were disturbing. Again and again he dreamed of the dagger piercing Vestara's body; and her dying form in his arms was replaced by the bleeding body of his mother like he had found her the morning after that fateful Death Night, on the doorstep. In the dream, his mother was still alive, despite her arm being severed at the wrist and her chest and stomach being covered in deep wounds.

In the dream, his mother tried to talk to him like Vestara did, blood trickling from her lips. She tried to say something; something important. But her words were faint, and he didn't understand what it was that she wanted him to know.

He woke up, bathed in cold sweat, and paced the wooden floor of the cabin till he had calmed down. But the next time he closed his eyes, the dream emerged again, and again Vestara, or his mother, spoke to him incomprehensibly, killed by a Witch Elf, dying in his arms.

At last he gave up trying to sleep and sat in the cabin, in a half-hearted attempt to sooth his soul with wine. In this short time that had passed since he had followed Lykaon out of his former family's shop, so much had happened; and now that he had seen Hag Graef again, he asked himself what his life would have been like if he had refused to go with the lord back then. Yes, he wouldn't have become a noble. But was it really worth it?

He had dreamed of magnificent battles and honor; now it seemed that he was just a tool of politics. Instead of helping to establish the rightful rule of the Druchii over Ulthuan and the rest of the world, he had fought for Lykaon's ascension and against the lord's enemies. Even more, he had fought for Lykaon's cult; the Cult of Pleasure.

By now he had sworn to serve a deity darker that the Cytharai, and had committed a deed that would be surely considered crime among most Druchii, aiding in a murder of a High Priestess of Khaine. He had lost himself in wine and drugs and orgies at the rituals, and he had suffered terrible pleasure and unspeakable pain at the hands of Lykaon and his fellow cultists, memories of it, faint but unsettling, still tingling in all the scars on his ruined skin. Sensual thoughts and ideas were intruding his mind all the time, and he had become easily distracted by anything promising pleasure, seeing everything through a lustful haze.

And then there was this voice that whispered to him from time to time. By now he was not as naive as he had been, and rather sure that it was not just his intuition.

Had he wanted it all? Had he wanted to become entangled in a net of decadence and treason? He shook his head. No, it was not what he had wanted. He was a Dark Elf; he would not become a slave to Chaos.

"Discipline. Patience." He spoke aloud, listening to his own voice like to one of a stranger. "Save your passion for the moment of the killing." He stood up, putting down the goblet. "Use your hate to drive your actions, but discipline is your strongest armor."

Maybe he should return to Naggor. Maybe he should hire on a ship. Maybe he should go somewhere where he wouldn't encounter Lykaon as soon again. He felt a sting in his heart, thinking of leaving the lord. But he saw no other possibility to regain his sanity. He had to get away from the Cult. If he didn't stop now, he would end up dead; and not in an honorable fashion.

He sighed. Pondering about things like that was highly annoying. The whole situation was rather depressing, too. They would sail on for several more days, he had lost his favorite slave at the Temple, Vestara was dead, and he was nowhere near drunk. He picked up the goblet, emptied it in one gulp and called for Tirael. Maybe more wine and some music would distract him from his sinister thoughts.

He spent a couple of hours with a keg of wine and his young liegeman. Tirael sang all the time, his lute raining sweet and silvery sounds, and Makareth felt a bit better. "Say, Tirael… If I would go back to Naggor, would you come with me? I know that Karelion cannot; but you have no enemies there."

Tirael stopped playing his music at once and looked at Makareth with wide eyes. "That is not possible, my lord!"

Makareth furrowed his brow. "Why not?"

"Don't you know? Naggor is no more. Your aunt told me, while you were paying your respect to the temple, that Hag Graef has finally defeated Naggor, and that all Naggorites are now enslaved. The new Drachau of Hag Graef, Malus Darkblade, thinks to use them as slave warriors in the war against Ulthuan soon!"

Makareth was shocked. "Naggor is no more?" He remembered the frozen Black Ark, its dark towers and the white icy plane around it, the throne hall with the illusory stars, the figures of harpies, the reliefs of monsters, the rich tapestries and the enormous dragon statue as well as the dirty, crowded subterranean corridors with their low ceilings. He thought of the arena in which he had won numerous fights against monsters and beheaded hundreds of slaves from the back of good old Karn; thought of his chambers that once belonged to the foolish poet Niodar, the study in which he had tortured his head with dozens of books on strategy and relaxed reading humorous verses… Belladon came to his mind, and the little winged lizard that she had sent as a messenger when she desired to see him.

It left him bitter and cold, this loss; and with astonishment he realized that Naggor had felt much more like home to him than Hag Graef ever could.


	26. 26 - The Price of Glory

**Part XXVI: The Price of Glory**

_Or: Dead End_

The wind blew dark clouds over the shores of Ulthuan, and the land was covered by an endless sea of dark tents and dark-clad warriors that the Arks have brought upon it. Already they had defeated the army of the Asur that came out to meet them at the coast; and now they were preparing to follow the High Elves into the passes of the Anullii mountains.

In the part of the encampment that was inhabited by the army from Karond Kar, the anticipation of battle was making the Druchii and the beasts they brought with them excited. Close to where Makareth was standing, a young, but already grown-out hydra roared and turned its heads to the two Beastmasters that were leading it to the position where it would have to wait till it was needed in battle.

Makareth heard Sameira shout and crack her chain whip, forcing the monster back on its path. He remembered her beastmasters training this same beast when it was much smaller; it was on the day they first met. He grinned; it had taken her not very long to reconsider her decision about not bedding him once Hadranir, Makareth' rival and Sameira's last paramour, was dead. Lykaon, completely dedicated to the new political developments in Karond Kar, neglected his wife quite a lot after she had given birth to the twins. Makareth raised a hand to his ear, touching the golden earring that she had given him two weeks ago as a lucky charm; the pendant on the small golden ring was depicting an exotic bird, but if one looked closely, it was possible to discover a faint pattern resembling the symbol of the Prince of Pleasures on it.

The call of the signal horn rang through the air over the encampment. Makareth closed the saddle belts on Rage's flank and corrected the sit of the armor plates on the nauglir's body. The long-legged reptile sniffed the air. As always, Rage was calm and obedient. Other Cold One Knights of Makareth' small regiment threw him and his mount envious looks. The other nauglir were already growling and biting the air, encouraged by the angry calls of greater beasts close by.

The army of Karond Kar consisted mostly of the Beastmasters and their monsters. Hydras, manticores, even two dragons – three, if one counted Bracchus, whom Rakarth rode – were waiting for their feast on the Asur. Harpies had followed one of the Black Arks, traveling on its towers, and were circling above the campsite, shrieking with their unearthly voices. Four regiments of corsairs and two small groups of Cold One Knights were stationed with the Beastmasters. The infantry was mainly there to guard the flanks of the hydras, while the role of the knights would be to guide the enemies directly into the beasts' jaws.

The bigger part of the Cold Ones in the Naggarothi encampment belonged to the Knights of Hag Graef. About a half of them would pull chariots, the other half carry their riders into the battle on their backs. Somewhere among the warriors of Hag Graef, the bigger, luxurious tent of their Drachau stood. Makareth grit his teeth thinking about the man. Malus Darkblade, the one who had slain Belladon; the one who was responsible for Naggor's destruction. Darkblade was Drachau of Hag Graef now; even more, he was the general of the Witchking's army, chosen to attack from the Dragon Gate while Malekith himself lead his forces against the Phoenix Gate. Makareth would have preferred to go with Malekith to the Phoenix Gate instead of following the hated Malus. But almost all of the Beastmasters from Karond Kar were ordered to attack at the Dragon Gate, and in the end he had decided to go together with Sameira.

Another section of the encampment belonged to executioners from Har Ganeth. Makareth didn't like to be near them – a deep, visceral fear clutched him when he saw one of their golden and black figures walking through the camp with firm steps. Everytime he looked upon one of them he was reminded of his treason, of his crime against the priestesses of Khaine. He couldn't help but think that the Khainites would somehow sense his corruption, know of his guilt.

Makateth knew that somewhere were also the tents of the slave warriors; the Naggorites. They would be sacrificed in this war, there was no doubt about it. He chased away the melancholic thoughts. Makareth, and Lykaon too, had escaped this fate, as well as Karelion, who was right now sitting on the back of his nauglir next to his liege, chewing on a piece of courva root with concentration. Makareth laughed. "Why so serious today, Karelion?"

"How could I not be serious? We could all die in this war." The retainer put on his helmet.

"We have already defeated them on the coast. Don't worry too much." Makareth jumped into the saddle. A servant came running to him, carrying the lance; with a fluid movement, Makareth gripped it. A black and purple pennon with symbols of Karond Kar, a dark tower and a hydra, and the golden Kythonarh runes under it, flowed in the air when he raised the lance.

The regiments moved. Makareth saw the Naggorite slave regiment march up into the pass. Reapers were positioned upon mountain slopes on both sides of the pass. The executioners, swift and disciplined, moved even further, walking upon the rocks as easily as they would upon the bloody cobble stones of their city, and disappeared from view between trees and stones. To the right, he saw the Cold One Knights of Hag Graef take position, hidden by the mountain side; the chariots had stayed away from the pass, on open land where they could use the advantage of speed; on the narrow road, they would be useless and not maneuverable.

He sighed. The beasts of Karond Kar would only move into battle later, once the pass fell and they could move on to attack the Dragon Gate. Since he had to stay close to the hydra tamers, his chance to really spill blood would only come if the Druchii managed to get so far at all. He whispered an order to Rage, and the nauglir leapt up onto the mountain slope, its clawed paws scratching upon the stones and breaking twigs of tree saplings. Riding as far up as possible without making the distance between him and the hydra drivers too great, Makareth brought the Cold One to a halt upon a small ledge. From here, he had a better view on the pass, but would still be able to return to his regiment in a couple of seconds. He heard a clumsier reptile following him noisily, and a Druchii swear, and turned his head to see Karelion joining him.

"Shouldn't we go back to the regiment, lord?" The knight's voice sounded troubled. Of course, since Makareth was the commander of this small regiment, no one could tell him to return. But Karelion was almost a friend, and the young Highborn didn't take his criticism as an offence. He knew that Karelion would give his life for him; he had already proved it more than once. Sometimes, Makareth thought that Karelion, despite being a thief – or maybe because he was a thief, careful and planning ahead – was the only voice of sanity to which Makareth would listen. He was the only one of his retainers and personal allies that was not a member of the Cult.

"No. Your prayers have been answered. I don't think we will fight today." Makareth pointed towards the pass with his gauntleted hand. "Watch."

Watching was all they could do for now. And as Makareth did so, he had to acknowledge the brilliance of the general; indeed, Malus Darkblade was a genius.

The Naggorite slave warriors were driven into the pass, attacking the defenses of the Asur. Swords and spears clashed against a wall of bright-colored shields. White-feathered arrows pierced black armor. The Naggorites fought with desperate fury, but the Asur were well-prepared to meet the attack; the advantage of knowing the terrain was on their side.

"They retreat! Isn't Darkblade going to do something about that?" Karelion snarled. "What a shame!"

Makareth saw the slave warriors from Naggor break and run. "It is not the fault of your compatriots, Karelion. They were merely…" His eyes widened as he saw the High Elf shield wall part, and knights on horses thunder down the pass, following the running Druchii. They chased them down the narrow road, and the first of the knights already reached the fleeing regiment, slaying them with triumph in their war cries. The spearmen of the Asur followed, motivated by the enemies' retreat. And that was when the bangs of the Reapers were heard, and a storm of spear-like bolts ripped through horse flesh and Asur armor alike. Falling elves and their dying mounts blocked the way, making the surviving knights stop in the pursuit. More bolts were released, turning the organized rows of High Elven spearmen into a bloody chaos."…A pawn sacrifice."

The knights retreated, trying to get back into the pass riding or running, slowed down by their own infantry that had been drawn out too far down the road. Makareth laughed as he saw the executioners from Har Ganeth descend from the slopes, cutting down spearmen and knights with their Draichs, efficient and deadly in each of their movements.

The narrow mountain road was flowing red with Asur blood. The defense of the pass fell.

Makareth turned to Karelion. "Let's ride down again. The army will be moving towards the Dragon Gate now."

"I hope not too fast," Karelion murmured.

Again, Makareth had to laugh at his vassal's words. He knew Karelion well enough to be sure that once it came to battle, all his cowardice would be gone.

But their advance didn't follow as fast as Makareth had hoped. They had to wait a week for Darkblade to return from the council with the Witchking. When he returned, with him came a bigger army.

Sameira shook her head, the high ponytail on her head swaying with the movement. "I cannot believe this. The Witchking is here!"

Makareth turned onto his stomach and raised his head to get a better look of her. The reddish evening sunlight pouring in through the entrance of the tent outlined her perfect silhouette, and the young Highborn relished the sight. "Well, they certainly have some cunning plan. After all, the attack on the Phoenix Gate didn't go all too good, while Darkblade has succeeded more than once here. It is not astonishing that they would concentrate their forces here."

She turned her head to look at him and smiled. "I have heard the Asur have been pulling their army back from the Dragon Gate, reinforcing the Phoenix fortress… It seems our leaders indeed have some clever plan."

He sat up, throwing the wool blankets away, and reached for his flask. Spiced red wine containing a mild narcotic, his current favorite drink. He gulped it down, thirstily, and then stood up. "The Naggorite slave regiment is gone. I suspect Malekith and Darkblade want to use them to make the Asur believe that the next attack will be on the Phoenix Gate."

"But just look at the army here!" Sameira's eyes gleamed. "They would be stupid to believe that…"

The signal horn was blown. Both Druchii looked at each other, and grinned with joyful anticipation.

The Beastmistress reached for her clothing, dressing with precise and graceful movements. Just a moment later, she ran out of the tent. No farewell, no kisses, Makareth thought. No one knew if they would survive the next battle; and still, Sameira was as heartless as ever. It didn't bother him that much anymore, though.

Makareth closed the belt of his leg harness and put on the khaitan. The drug circling through his blood system made him awake and euphoric at the same time. "Tirael!"

The young retainer came in, already fully dressed in battle attire. "My lord?"

"Help me with my armor. It seems we finally get to fight."

The high, white walls of the Dragon Gate were besieged. Black dragons hurled their fire onto the battlements and threw themselves onto the walls, breaking stones out of it with their mighty claws.

Rocks were heaved into the air by magic and thrown upon the defenses by the spells of Sorceresses. Siege machines were pushed and pulled into position.

The Asur on the battlements rained arrows down onto their enemy, their wizards trying to interfere with the power of the Dark Elf Sorceresses, but they were outnumbered.

Through a powerful spell, the Druchii had created an illusion, multiplying the images of the Naggorite slave army that was forced to march onto the Phoenix gate. Tricked into believeing that the Dragon Gate would not be the center of the Druchii attack, too many warriors had left to reinforce the army of the Phoenix Fortress, and now the few remaining regiments were faced with an enormous army of doom.

Beastmasters on manticores descended onto the battlements, throwing dozens of High Elf archers down from the gate's walls; the executioners hooked ladders onto the walls and climbed up, slaying the defenders in holy Khainite fury.

Already the first breach in the walls let in the infantry and the Cold One Knights from Hag Graef; another one was entered by the Black Guard of Naggarond. The ground regiments of Karond Kar, the War Hydras and their Beastmasters as well as their support troops, would finally join too, to wreck havoc on the defenders.

Makareth' Cold One Knights from Karond Kar followed the Hag Graef cavalry into the breach. It was big enough to let through the hydra that was following.

Inside, the huge nauglir regiment lead by the Drachau of Hag Graef was slaughtering the spearmen that tried to defend the breach. Another Asur company was running to the help of their comrades, following the course of the wall.

Makareth shouted an order, and the twenty knights that rode with him rushed forwards, as if to join the battle that Darkblade's men were fighting. The Asur spearmen reinforcement was quick to follow, creating two fronts for the Cold One Knights, trying to take away the main advantage of the cavalry, its ability to move fast.

But Makareth let his regiment stop and turn around just before joining the battle. The Asur that were hoping to strike from the back were at once faced with the foaming jaws of the nauglir and the weapons of the Druchii Knights. They were stopped in their advance; and then a towering shape with serpentine necks rose behind them. The hydra's heads plucked one High Elven warrior from the ground after another; corsairs and the second regiment of nauglir riders from Karond Kar followed the monster into the breach.

Rage roared, tearing Asur that tried to attack him and his rider apart; the searing flames of the Black Dragons set the dusk ablaze, and the screams of dying High Elves and the triumphant battle cries of the Druchii echoed in the heights of the Anullii.

They had advanced far beyond the gate. "Banner of Blood! Banner of Blood!" The Hag Graef Knights chanted the war cry of Malus Darkblade through the night, slaying down the last of the Asur knights that dared to attack them. Some of the Druchii fell, their Cold Ones killed by the lances of the High Elves, but the sons of Hag Graef didn't tremble.

Makareth' regiment came to their help, falling into the flank of the Asur riders. The young Druchii sank his lance into the side of a High Elven knight, pushing the elf from his horse with the impact and throwing him into the jaws of the nauglir behind it. Letting the lance, less useful in short range combat, fall, Makareth drew his swords and attacked another of the Asur, his blades drawing perfect silver curves in the air and cutting into the enemy's arm and neck while Rage bit into the spine of the opponent's white horse.

The Druchii ripped the Asur army apart like a nauglir would a doe. Makareth' blood sang, the excitement of the battle, enhanced by the drug, giving him the impression of flying, of being invincible. Again and again he struck with his blades, his movements so fast that no counter-blow of the enemies came through, and each of his strikes summoned a scream or a silent death. He tasted blood on his lips, his face and his breastplate were bathed in it, and the taste made him shiver in ecstasy. The thrill of killing, though always giving him sensual pleasure, has never been as intense before.

At once, he had no more opponents in front of him. Searching for a possibility to continue the slaughter, he looked around feverishly.

His eyes were drawn to a fight between two elves. One of them was the Asur commander of the Dragon Gate garrison, in a winged helmet and golden armor, his white horse rearing in panic. He was drenched in blood of others, but seemingly not wounded. And in front of him, the lance raised, face distorted into a cruel grin, the Drachau of Hag Graef, Malus Darkblade.

The Druchii didn't strike instantly; instead, the Drachau's Cold One bit into the neck of the Asur's mount, and the High Elf was thrown down into the dust before he died; only then did Darkblade pierce his heart with the lance, laughing madly.

Makareth stared at this Dark Elf whom he had hated for a long time and admired for the last weeks, and his euphoria was suddenly swept away. A cold, creepy feeling that something was wrong enveloped him, steadying his feverish gaze and shifting it, suddenly, as if he would at once look at the Drachau of Hag Graef from another point of view, or, rather, look through him.

Swirling, intense colors unfolded before his eyes, and a deep, horrible darkness at the same time; the aethyric pattern at which he stared was attached to Malus Darkblade like a dark jewel would be encased in shiny silversteel.

A daemon, Makareth thought.

Don't look too close, the whispering voice in his head said, it might notice you too.

He forced Rage to turn, using his spurs instead of a voiced order. The nauglir growled in discontent but obeyed. Slowly, Makareth rode over the battlefield. He looked without emotion at the Druchii celebrating their victory by torturing captured enemies or stringing them to wooden poles erected everywhere on the battlefield, a horrible forest of dead to greet the morning. He didn't listen to his brethren's perverse laughter, did not smell the copper and fire and death anymore.

He was disappointed. Was everything that the Druchii did, all their greatness, all their passion, all their cruelty, all the successes they achieved, in reality just another move in a chess game of Chaos? He remembered how lightheartedly Darkblade sacrificed the Naggorites, hundreds of Druchii lives for a brief moment of fame as a brilliant strategist. Makareth had seen it clearly, the Chaos inside the man's soul; yet Darkblade was considered one of the great generals of Naggaroth; the greatest, maybe, apart from the Witchking himself.

Makareth took of his helmet, squinted his eyes at the rising sun. Why oppose corruption, if all roads to glory only lead through it, he thought bitterly. The Druchii might pretend to wield the darkness as their weapon, be proud of never falling prey to it, of always being in control. In truth, it was the darkness that used them as a tool.

All of them.


	27. 27 - Masterpiece

**Part XXVII: Masterpiece**

_Or: Light at the End of the Tunnel_

Just two words. The letter consisted of two words. No addressee, no signature. Makareth stared at it, trying to figure out if there were maybe secret signs on the parchment, or maybe some magical trick needed to read it. He tried to heat it with a candle flame, poured water over it. Nothing happened.

"Return immediately." That was all.

He groaned and let his forehead sink onto his hands. The letter had been brought to the camp of the Witchking's and Darkblade's united forces an hour ago; the supply caravan that came from the coast where the fleet that had brought food for the army waited for it to return. The Druchii of the caravan, merchants that had to sail back and forth with this task, looked at the warriors chosen to fight in Ulthuan with jealous eyes. Still, someone had to provide the enormous army with everything it needed, since the Naggarothi's advance in Ulthuan was not fast enough for them to survive with what they found in the defeated settlements.

The merchant that had given Makareth the letter had said that it was from his father, Lord Kythonarh. Now the commoner waited in his wagon for Makareth either to come with him or give him a message in return. Makareth sighed.

Lykaon was summoning him to come back; but why? He hadn't seen the lord for many months now. They had had a minor conflict before Makareth joined the forces that would invade Ulthuan. Lykaon had wanted him to accompany him to Lustria, where they would fight on Morathi's side. But after Makareth had returned from Hag Graef, he was adamant about his decision to stay away from the Cult, even if it meant breaking his bonds with the man whom everyone considered his father. Of course, he didn't tell Lykaon the truth about his decision, and it had taken him more than a year to tell him that he wanted to participate in the invasion on Ulthuan at all. At last, Lykaon had accepted the decision. Makareth suspected it was not for the young Highborn's sake, but rather because it was a proof of loyalty of family Kythonarh to the Witchking, if more of them answered the call to go to Ulthuan than not.

The tone of the short letter left no doubt about Lykaon being serious about Makareth' return though. Something must have happened. The lord needed him. He had to go.

The travel on the merchant ship was torturous – not because of the questionable comfort of his quarters on the vessel, but because of the dark feelings of foreboding that gripped Makareth' heart throughout the weeks. When at last the galley entered the harbor of Karond Kar, he was trembling with impatience and worry.

The Tower of Despair had not changed significantly in the time that he was on Ulthuan. The familiar screams of the harpies and the wailing of the dead upon the walls greeted him.

There were not as many Druchii at the docks as usually. The slaver raids were relatively rare these days, most of the Druchii able to fight being at Ulthuan's shores, and the amusement of waiting at the docks for the slaves to go on land had lost some of its appeal – due to lack of slaves. The merchant ship which brought Makareth to Naggaroth did transport some of the Asur captured in the war though, and the docks filled with more spectators, news spreading quickly.

Even with half the population of Karond Kar gone with either the Witchking himself or his general Malus Darkblade, the streets were far from being empty. And there was a new wind blowing through the city, a change that had probably happened slowly but was all too noticeable to Makareth who had not seen Karond Kar for months.

With astonishment, Makareth saw small groups of colorfully dressed and jewelry-wearing Druchii laughing and drinking wine on the streets in front of the Flesh Houses and corsair taverns, heard music, from silvery harmonies to dark dissonant chants, from the windows and doors of the houses and towers along the road to the slave markets.

Banners with Druhir runes telling of the greatness of the Witchking, rightful ruler of Ulthuan and Naggaroth, and of his majestic Queen-Mother were hung from balconies and parapets. With growing discomfort, he saw that at the corners of some houses, dead bodies of Asur slaves or even Druchii were draped over wooden frames, impaled on iron stakes or chained to the walls, covered with girlands of withering flowers. Around these bizarre monuments, he saw intricate writing in liquid gold or dried blood. He brought Rage to halt at one of the corners, trying to decipher the words; they made no sense.

When he finally reached the Kythonarh estate, he was relieved that there were no such things around it. But as he rode through the gate to the inner courtyard, he saw slaves and servants hurrying between the buildings. He dismounted and brought Rage to the stables, not surprised anymore that most of the nauglir cages were full and that there were unfamiliar horses in the boxes.

He walked through the smaller portal to the main tower that led into it from the courtyard. Just like the main entrance facing the road, it was adorned with sculpted snakes, and now that he looked closely, he saw that the sculptures had been painted lately, the snake bodies a combination of blue, dark green and purple, the edges of the scales shimmering golden.

It was warm inside, and a heavy scent of incense hung in the air. Makareth walked to the main hall from where many voices were heard, accompanied by a sweet, melancholic tune played by a flute.

When he crossed the antechamber of the hall, a Druchii just leaving the hall suddenly stopped, greeting him in a low, soft voice. "Another member of House Kythonarh? I am delighted to meet you, young one."

Makareth had never seen an elf like this. Tall and broad-shouldered, the man moved with a cat-like grace despite wearing a heavy armor, the plates of which seemed to be covered with malachite and adorned with golden and copper ornaments in which sapphires and emeralds were encased. The armor covered almost all of his body. Where the armor plates had gaps, Makareth caught a glimpse of pale skin; he didn't see any straps or buckles connecting the plates. Around his unusually narrow waist, the stranger wore an intricately patterned leather belt from which two long panels of fabric descended, one in the front and one in the back; symbols were embroidered on it. The most prominent one was the line connecting a circle to a smaller crescent of a waning moon; the line was intersected by a bigger crescent, its horns mirroring the smaller moon. Makareth knew this symbol well – it was on the earring that Sameira gave him; it had been on Hadranir's khaitan; it was tattooed onto the enchantments on Lykaon's skin. It was the sign of the Prince of Pleasure.

The face of the elf was strange; it looked young and strikingly handsome, but at the same time distorted in some way; maybe the lips were too full, or the nose too narrow; or perhaps the features were too symmetric to be really appealing. His white, silky hair, woven into a single thick braid with spun gold and pearls, was so long that the stranger had put it in loops and tucked it into his belt, wearing it like a corsair or a beastmaster would a whip. Indeed, the end of the braid split into several smaller ones, adorned with thorns and metal weights.

Looking back up to the face of the elf, Makareth realized what it was that unsettled him so much about it. It was the eyes – or the fact that the stranger had none. Smooth, unscarred skin covered the eyeholes, and what the young Highborn had taken for eyes earlier were just arcane symbols painted on.

Makareth stepped back. "Ah… I am glad as well, dread lord." He rushed to the double doors leading to the main hall, hearing an amused chuckle from the creepy creature.

The hall was looking differently from the last time Makareth had seen it. New tapestries and shawls of finest silk have been added to the walls; statues of gold depicting strange reptilian creatures decorated the alcoves in which the witchlight lanterns and braziers were standing. The long table was covered in dark blue and red petals of flowers.

Along the walls, pillows and animal furs were scattered, inviting to sit or lay down and rest; indeed, small groups of Druchii whose faces the young Highborn didn't recognize were seated there, some of them smoking herbs in a hookah, others sharing wine or caressing each other in a lazy, drugged manner.

In the middle of the hall, a small podium had been built from wooden planks and partially covered with an ornamented carpet. On it, a slender black-haired elf of undefinable age and gender was sitting cross-legged, playing an ivory flute. The melody was slow, clear and of a bitter-sweet sadness.

At the table that stood at one of the shorter walls, Lykaon resided with the two leaders of the noble families loyal to him, a couple of Highborn that Makareth had seen at Rakarth' court from time to time, and a dozen of strangers. All of the elves present were dressed in fine, richly adorned robes, and a few wore parade armor polished to golden or silvery shine.

Between the plates with fruits and spiced bread, a body of a female Asur was lying on the table; she was dead, but only recently so, and parts of her were missing; the table cloth was soaked in blood. One of the guests leaned forwards and cut a slice of flesh from her thigh with a sharp knife, dipped it into a small bowl of salt and put it into his mouth, all the while smiling at his neighbor at the table who seemed to recite a poem or tell a joke, gesticulating wildly.

Makareth stepped closer and bowed to Lykaon.

A genuine, warm smile lighted the pale face of the lord. He stood up, went around the table towards the young Highborn, and embraced him. "It is good to see you, Makareth. Come, I have something to discuss with you."

"I would not want to distract you from your celebration, my lord." Makareth looked around the hall, wondering what it was all about. It seemed almost like a ritual, but had too much of an everyday quality to it at the same time.

"This is no celebration. The people you see here have been staying at my house for the last months, ever since I came back from Lustria. Our forces have been successful there." Lykaon took his arm and guided him out of the hall.

Once in Lykaon's chambers, Makareth breathed out. "Why did you ask me to come back?" His eyes darted to a cage in the corner of Lykaon's sitting room. Ayandil was crouching in it, his arms bound behind his back, his blue gaze empty, his skin covered with hundreds of scabbed wounds. The Asur slave didn't seem to notice them enter the room at all; he was in his own private hell.

Lykaon sat on a bench upholstered with tattooed human hide. "Because I wouldn't want to leave without you."

"Leave?" The young Highborn paced the room, taking in the new abundance of golden trinkets on the shelves and the low table, some of which radiated a faint magical aura. He stopped in his tracks. How was it possible that he saw the enchantments? He had seen the demon in Malus Darkblade, too, he remembered. What happened? It was as if magic was awakening in him, magic that had been dormant for almost fifty years.

The lord gestured Makareth to sit down next to him. "Yes. Because I already know where these new developments will end, but have a strong wish to survive. And I want you to survive with me."

Makareth obeyed. The bench was unusually comfortable after the travel on the merchant ship. "The new developments... Are you speaking of the madness everywhere here in Karond Kar? Music, feasting, all these colors... Flowers. I was almost thinking that my unpleasant journey was just a dream, and that I haven't left Ulthuan after all." He snorted, unable to conceal his disgust.

"Not only in Karond Kar, my dear vassal. Everywhere in Naggaroth." Lykaon grinned. His hand wandered up Makareth' back and came to rest on his neck. This gesture of affection, typical for Lykaon, startled Makareth this time. The lord continued. "The Queen-Mother has gained much power now that her son is away fighting the Asur. The raid on Lustria had brought unspeakable riches, and the people of Naggaroth love her. With her, the Cult has grown and is now even more powerful than the Temple of Khaine."

The younger Druchii opened his eyes wide in shock. "But the Temple won't accept that! This could mean a civil war!"

"Yes, and it is even worse... Don't ask me how I know it, but the Witchking's successes on Ulthuan will not last. He will come back defeated. And he will need a scapegoat."

Makareth understood what Lykaon was hinting at. "And you think the Cult of Pleasure will be this scapegoat, don't you, my lord? And that you – no, we – will be considered guilty?"

Lykaon nodded. "Yes. There will be a purge. A lot of killing, executions, sacrifices to Khaine; it will heat the temperaments and cleanse the minds of the Druchii; repair their broken pride after another fruitless attempt of conquering back their righteous home. A good thing, to be honest. But I don't want my house to be the one that burns for the sake of others' future. And so I will leave before Malekith returns. And you will, too."

"But where will we go to?" Makareth' throat was incredibly dry, and he longed for a gulp of wine, but there was none to be seen in the lord's sitting room.

"Albion." Lykaon stood up and walked to the window, opening the shutters and letting the cold wind in. "There is a new Druchii colony there."

Makareth looked over to his lord. Leaving Karond Kar and exploring terrains yet unknown to him actually didn't seem like such a bad idea. He had tried to escape the influence of the Cult more than that of Lykaon himself, he admitted to himself now. Going somewhere with the lord would be like a revival of the earlier times, when Makareth still was full of hope and illusions about a possible ascension; maybe a new start could give him back some of these illusions. The wind that broke into the warm air of the room smelled like the sea, but to Makareth, it was the smell of adventure.

Lykaon sighed and looked out into the grey skies. "We will have to pretend we land there by accident. We don't want anybody to think we are fleeing, would we?"

The young Highborn stood up and walked to the window too, leaning on the wall. "But what will become of the twins? Your sons?"

"My sons?" The lord laughed. "They are Hadranir's." He looked at Makareth, and his green eyes were sparkling with mischief. He didn't seem upset with the fact he just stated at all. "They will go to the north with Sariyen, an old ally of mine; he has voiced interest in taking care of them. Maybe you have seen him already – he wears quite a fancy armor."

Makareth remembered the elf in the malachite armor and shivered. "I guess I have. He doesn't look like a Druchii at all."

"He isn't. He was one of the wizards from Saphery that joined the cabal of the Dru Perim in times before the Sundering. Which would make him an Asur. Technically." Lykaon furrowed his brow. "I see you don't like him much; be careful not to underestimate him. He can read your feelings like an open book, and he is very sensitive to insults. He might be an Asur, but he is also a champion of the Dark Prince, and one shouldn't joke with things like that."

"But why are you taking me with you?"

The lord winked at him. "Maybe because you are still a part of my plans; or maybe because I enjoy your company." He shrugged. "Do I need reasons? I made you what you are now; I do not wish to part with such an interesting work of art yet. You are my masterpiece." His claws touched the golden hadrilkar around Makareth' neck again. "And still mine to command."

A couple of months later, they were sailing towards Bretonnia's coasts. The "accident" would be a skiff stranded at Albion's coasts after a successful raid – not the most probable, but a possible outcome. Of course, if they wanted to stay there, they would have to start from zero and fight for status in the new colony. But it was certainly better than being dead. And having a couple of slaves to trade or to give away as gifts would make the start a bit easier.

The skiff was rising and falling on the waves of the storm, and the corsairs gave their best to keep it in control. Makareth held fast to the railing, looking into the distance. He wasn't afraid of the weather – he knew that it was Lykaon who summoned the storm, and that it wouldn't do them any harm. The dark clouds would keep them hidden from view till they reached the shore.

Lykaon stood beside him, his purple cloak billowing in the wind, green eyes burning with joy, sparks flying from his fingers as he continued to weave the spell, forcing the winds of magic to materialize into the storm.

Makareth saw a corsair climb back on board after being swept from the deck by a cold wave, and shook his head. Lykaon was a bit too enthusiastic with his weather spell.

When the young Highborn looked back to the horizon, he felt his heart skip a beat. There was land in sight.

And it was the exactly same shore they had visited on their first raid together, almost twenty years ago. He remembered how they got into the castle with tricks and sorcery, leaving the villages to the rest of the fleet, and he laughed.

The clouds began to dissolve. A faint ribbon of light blue and orange sky illuminated the sandy slope of the coast, and the first stars of the evening appeared in the darker heights.

Lykaon put a hand on his shoulder. "This time, we'll take a village." He was grinning, and Makareth knew that the lord recalled the last time they were here too.

The young Druchii had a strange feeling of foreboding; it was as if a circle was being closed. But as he jumped into the landing boat, the feeling was replaced by the usual anticipation of battle, excitement and impatience making his heart beat faster.


	28. 28 - Reborn

**Part XXVIII: Reborn**

_Or: The Hero's Return_

It had begun as a successful raid. The Druchii rushed through the village when the night had fallen, killing those who opposed them and taking those who didn't as slaves. At dawn, they led a long line of humans, chained together, to the landing boats.

And then there was the thunder of hooves and the clinking of metal armor, and the knights were riding towards them in full speed. The Bretonnians had not forgotten. They had waited for the Druchii to return.

Makareth had only realized what was happening when one of the men that he and Lykaon had taken with them on this journey, a former guard of the Kythonarh estate, who was just a moment ago shouting at the slaves to move faster, was trampled to death by a horse. The hooves broke through armor and ribs, and Makareth saw the hand of the warrior loosing the grip of the Drannach spear he had tried to turn against the enemy. The knight whose mount killed the guard directed his strike at Makareth; he ducked, and, led by instinct, picked up the spear before coming up again. It had a greater range, and that was what he needed now.

The knight's horse danced to the side, and seeing that Makareth was too close, the knight drew his sword, swinging it in a high curve. The Druchii dodged again, jumping out of reach. With all his force, he pushed the spear into the horse's flank. The animal reared, whinnying in terror, and the knight was thrown down from its back, the heavy armor pinning him to the ground. Makareth drove the tip of the spear between gorget and helmet of the enemy, blood spraying when he tore it out again.

The humans that they had captured screamed and tried to get away, but the chains were hindering them; two of the knights shouted at them, chasing them from the battlefield as a shepherd dog would a flock of sheep. Their attempt to spare the villagers slowed the knights down; and Makareth thought the Druchii might have a chance.

But most of the corsairs were already fleeing; some of them had reached the landing boat and were on their way to the skiff that swayed on the waves at the horizon. The second boat was destroyed, and the rest of the Druchii seamen and Lykaon's retainers had no other choice as to fight for their lives.

Makareth ran to Lykaon, jumping out of the way of another knight and over the body of a dying corsair. He saw one of the enemies try to strike the lord with a lance, and Lykaon raised his magical sword to parry; but the impact of horse and rider was too great, and the weapon was knocked out of the lord's hand and flew out of his reach. Lykaon was lucky; the horse jumped over him without hitting him with its hooves.

The younger Druchii saw the lord rising on his feet again; Lykaon's hands forming the secret signs of a spell; but the knight who had just disarmed him turned his horse and rode back to end what he had begun.

"No!" Makareth lept forwards, throwing Lykaon aside and out of the way of the Bretonnian.

The sound was horrible, metal against metal, not a clash but a thud that made his ears ring. He was thrown onto his back, sliding on the sand, and something shook him once more before leaving him lying there. He tried to sit up, but out of some reason it was difficult. The light of morning was so bright that everything seemed white and blinding; the sound of battle around him was distant now. Something was wrong with his armor, too, he thought. He raised his hands above his face and pulled off one of the gauntlets. With a bare hand, he felt his way along his breastplate. Something wet was on his stomach, between bent and sharply torn shards of metal that had been his armor plates. He realized it must be his blood or entrails, or both, and that the rugged edges of the metal were around the hole in the armor where the lance had pierced him. He wondered why he didn't feel pain. And then he did, at once. It was so great that it took away his consciousness.

…

_Darkness._

_Pain._

_A voice, whispering weakly._

_A memory of a voice._

_His mother in his arms, bleeding to death, her eyes unseeing. "He promised to come back for you, my son, he promised, but he didn't keep his word."_

"_Who, mother? Who?" He holds her close, his clothing, old and patched, soaked with her blood. The street is full of dead, red and black and white and yellow and blue, the Death Night has once again taken its toll. In other houses, neighbors are celebrating their safety for another year. _

"_A noble, a sorcerer… There was a ritual." The fingers of her remaining hand are digging into his arm. "He said… He said I will give birth to a child of unusual power." Anger and disappointment shadow her face. "But you have no power, my poor baby. You are nothing… You are like me, not like him. He didn't come back for you."_

"_Mother, what are you talking about?" His voice is cold, and he doesn't care for a moment. Her words have hurt him, and the feeling of insulted pride is stronger that the feeling of loss. He doesn't cry. But he still holds her in his arms. The dusky gray of a day in Hag Graef , where the sunlight never reaches the streets, calls out slaves and merchants and guards. The labyrinth city awakens. _

_She searches for his face with her eyes. Looks through him. "Your father. Your real father. He promised to come back after thirty years… To take you and me away with him to his palace in the town of the warlocks… Where we would live in wealth and… where you… would become a great warrior…" Her words are hardly audible now._

_He leans down to hear what she says. "I will become a great warrior, mother. I will, I promise." He doesn't believe his own words. The only time he has fought in a war is just a month ago, and despite his survival, despite his success, no general came to assign him a position as a captain, no noble chose him as his retainer. His skill will be unnoticed forever, and he will die a death as useless as hers, he knows. But he is curious, curious beyond compare, and the curiosity is stronger than the sadness he feels. "Who is he, mother? My real father. Tell me his name."_

"_I… don't know. But he told me yours. The name I should have given you…" She smiles, for a moment lost in a memory of something pleasant. She doesn't seem to feel the pain of her wounds anymore, and he understands that her death is just mere seconds away. She whispers into his ear. "This other fool that I married just days after the ritual… He called you Makareth…"Her breath is warm and smells like blood. "Your real name is Darion… Dhar-Oriour, born of dark magic." Her breath at his ear is gone._

"_Mother?" He resists the urge to shake her. She doesn't answer anymore. He is angry, so angry at her that she put an end to her life instead of telling him the truth earlier. Why did she go out on Death Night? Was it the fact that he hasn't become the great warrior she hoped him to be? Was it the fact that this mysterious noble never came? He wants to forget; wants it to be nothing but a nightmare from which he could wake up. _

_His wish is granted._

_A voice, whispering words of comfort._

_Pain. Tingling magical warmth knotting his torn flesh together again._

_Light, stinging his eyes._

…

The young Druchii walked down to the coast.

It was the first time that he left Louaine's hut. He still didn't understand why the human girl had dragged him from the battlefield full of Dark Elven and human dead, why she healed him, cared for him.

He suspected she just wanted a companion, though to chose a Druchii as one was macabre, given that Louaine was only spared by the raiders' attack because she lived in the forest, away from the village. The red-haired human was shunned by her own kind for being a witch, always in fear of the Witch Hunters who might come for her. She was still needed by the villagers when there was a difficult birth, or a serious illness in their settlement. During the long days of his recovery, she had told him her lonely story.

She had spoken Bretonnian to him, at first; then, when she saw he didn't understand, she tried Reikspiel. She didn't speak it too well, but it was enough for them to understand each other. She was the first human whose name he had ever learned.

He hasn't told her his name yet. He pretended that he had forgotten it. Soon, he would tell her; but there was something that had to be done first.

The dead humans had been buried by the villagers a couple of days after the battle, but not so the Dark Elven raiders. Superstitious and fearing some taint that could spring onto their body or mind if they touched the Druchii, the humans have left everything where it was – weapons, armor, and the corpses.

The wind and the scavenging animals have gnawed at the bones of the Druchii dead; none of them was complete anymore, most faces just skulls. He realized that it had been months since that fateful battle. Still, he was sure that he would instantly recognize Lykaon's body by his armor if he found it. It was unique, with its purple and black and gold and the spikes adorning it.

He came with the intention to bury the lord's body; he felt that it was his duty. He had taken a shovel with him, from the shed behind Louaine's house.

He looked everywhere, turning over shields and kicking away withered corpses of corsairs. He found the Drannach that he had used in that battle, and picked it up. He also found his own sword, with the runes on its hilt. But he didn't find Lykaon.

Maybe the humans had taken the lord's body with them for some unknown reason or maybe Lykaon had survived. He hoped it was the latter.

He used the shovel to dig a deep hole in the ground. The evening sun shone on the golden circle with the runes when he looked at the sword one last time. The runes, "Dhar" and "Oriour", and the phonetic sign "N". He had thought that the runes meant "Niodar", the name of the lord's dead nephew; but now he understood that they could be read the other way around too.

According to the ancient tradition of Nagarythe, the first sword was forged for a child of noble blood around the time of his birth. That is what this sword was; it had been made for him.

The runes read "Dhar-Oriour-N". Darion. Born of dark magic. He had blocked out the memory of his mother's death; forgotten her words because her foolish suicide was too painful for him to remember. But now he knew again; the memory had come back to him when he was on the border between life and death.

He dropped the sword into the hole; then he reached into his shoulder bag and took out the golden torc that he had worn around his neck for years. The hadrilkar, the collar of servitude that marked him as Lykaon's retainer. He wouldn't need it here, with Lykaon either dead or lost. He let the torc fall too, and it clinked gently against the blade of the sword.

Earth covered gold and silversteel. He didn't need to mark the place – it was easy to recognize, between two boulders and an old tree. But he didn't think he would ever come back to retrieve the items anyway.

He thought of Lykaon, and a wistful feeling that he wasn't able to define made his heart ache for a moment.

"Why did you lead us here?" He spoke to the battlefield, whispering words in Druhir. He hadn't used the language for weeks, and it already tasted strange. "You knew that we would be defeated, didn't you? You can't tell me that you have made a mistake. Was it all a part of your plans?" His fingers flew up to his face, touching the scar running from one cheekbone to another, and he felt full of bitterness and hate for Lykaon at once. "Everything was always just a part of your plans, wasn't it, father?"

He walked back, up the hills and through the forest. The last rays of the sun were dyeing the tree tops golden and red, painting the upper edge of the straw roof of Louaine's hut light yellow. He strode around the house and brought the shovel back to the shed; he leaned the Drannach against the wall beside it. Who knew, he might need it one day.

When he returned to the front of the hut, the human girl ran out, her red hair flowing, her freckled face showing an expression of both worry and relief.

He smiled at her awkwardly. It was odd to treat a human as an equal, but he had to learn, if he wanted to survive in the Old World. "Good evening, Louaine."

She drew the brown shawl around her shoulders, and her cheeks went red. "Good evening, eh..." So many times she had asked him for his name; now he would finally tell her.

"Darion. My name is Darion." He stepped closer and touched her shoulder. She shivered, but didn't move away. "Do not worry. I just went to say farewell to my fallen comrades. Now I feel that I can finally begin a new life."

Her eyelashes fluttered, and he almost heard her heart beat, fast and excited. Such a foolish human, he thought. Had they met in a different situation, she would have suffered nothing but pain at his hands. But now the times had changed. He put his arms around her small, soft shape, pulling her close. Her hair smelled like goat milk and parsley. "Little animal," he said in Druhir.

Louaine was just a human, he thought, but she was also a witch. She could teach him to wield magic.

And learning to use magic, of its most powerful and darkest kind, was what he wanted.

It was what he was born for.

…

_Though will it come to pass that the firstborn son of noble blood shall rise to power. _

_The child will be learned in the darkest arts and he will raise an army of terrible beasts. _

_Thus will the Dark King fall, slain by neither blade nor arrow but by a sorcerous power of darkest magic, and so shall his body be consumed in the flames and for all eternity burn._

...

...

THE END

...


	29. 29 - Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Or: The Hundred Roads_

...

**Chaos Wastes, two months ago**

Sariyen was in an exceptionally good mood. He was almost always happy, but today he was simply overjoyed. His steed, the lithe, two-legged creature gifted to him by his all-loving deity, sensed its rider's delight and arched its graceful serpentine neck, drinking the emotion hungrily, and Sariyen petted its silky hide with affection. "There will be most interesting times ahead," he whispered.

The silver bells of the sleigh, pulled by two sturdy ponies, rang through the air that smelled like snow. It must be still daytime, though Sariyen, who wasn't able to see but the true nature of things in their colors given by the winds of magic, didn't gain anything from the light. Still, the behavior of the two small horses, whose life was swirling in brown and green when he looked at them, told him that they felt not much fear, and this was a true sign that the night hasn't fallen over the Northern Wastes yet.

He saw the flickering, pale golden soul of the battered Asur slave that he had taken with him from the cage in Lykaon's chambers; it was wrapped in clouds of amethyst, the wind of death and despair howling around the Asur. Such a pity, Sariyen thought, the poor thing had lost all joy in life. But it would be changed soon; Sariyen knew of many ways to heal a soul through pleasure, comfort and distraction. He might need the elf later. Someone with real eyes could be useful when raising children. And it was good to finally have some Asur company again – after all these years he had spend alone or with the dirty barbarians of the north, who worshiped him as a god, but could never become his friends.

The human caretaker would be in greater danger, actually; her soul, light brown and apricot, was already eaten at by the furious winds of the Wastes, and lacking the elven resistance to mutation, she would not last long. Sariyen hoped she would at least live for long enough to provide the babes with milk, till they could eat solid food. He sighed, cursing his old ally for being so shortsighted and not having chosen an elven wet nurse for the twins.

The twins; oh yes, the twins! Sariyen had always been curious how it would be to have children. He had left Saphery and his betrothed, a beautiful elf-maid, when he was young and ambitious, following the one whom he had thought the true heir of Aenarion. He had never found a woman worthy of carrying his offspring again. That was the only thing he had ever regretted in all those thousands of years. But his god loved him, and there it was, the lost opportunity, to be grasped and enjoyed in all its possibilities.

The tiny silver souls of the babes, hidden under heaps of furs and silken blankets in the sleigh, they burned so bright, so wonderfully new. He would teach them everything he knew, magic and warfare, would shape them after his own image; and when they were old enough, he would introduce them into the proper worship of the One True Deity.

Basking in these pleasurable thoughts, Sariyen turned his inner eye towards the north; the aurora of Chaos Lights were visible to him even without eyes. They would arrive at his castle soon. He was looking forward to all the new experiences.

...

**Blackspine mountains, Naggaroth, half a year later**

Ruathac steadied his hand, breathing in and out calmly, concentrating on the man walking down the slope.

The barbarian was sinking in deeply, the snow reaching up to his knees, his clumsy movements slowing him down further. He was easy prey for Ruathac.

Hateful thoughts rose in the elf's mind. These beasts had slain his family, all of them.

He had come back to the Blackspines after seventy years of service to the city-dwelling Highborn to find them all gone. Emptiness and howling wind where the tents of the Autarii had once stood; the longhouse where he used to reside in his short time as the Urhan, the leader of the clan, was home to wolves and ferrets now.

They had tried to fight the humans and their demonic allies off, but once again, their small number had been their end. No matter how silent, dexterous, skillful the Shades were – they were no match for a whole army.

Ruathac had found his family, after a while. Defeated by the magic of one of the Chaos shamans of the barbarians, or maybe by the renegade Druchii Sorceresses which were the true commanders of the army, the Autarii clan had been lured into a trap and frozen in a glacier for all eternity.

He had tried to kill as many of the Chaos worshipers as possible. He had been relieved for a while when they all moved south one day and left the place which Ruathac had always called his home; he had dreamed of beginning a new life.

But they had returned now, less numerous, but grown in strength and unholy power. He had overheard two of the fallen Sorceresses that left the army to cross the mountains, probably to go to Clar Karond, speaking of their successes in Lustria, and of the Cult of Pleasure taking over the Cities. He had killed both Sorceresses and their barbarian entourage.

He wondered if the Witchking knew; he wondered what might become of Naggaroth if Chaos scum was allowed to rule it so openly.

The human was almost too far now; cursing under his breath at himself for being distracted by his melancholic thoughts, Ruathac adjusted his aim.

The human took another step.

The Shade shot.

The bolt pierced the human's neck, right between the crude chainmail shirt and the edge of the leather helmet that he was wearing, shattering the spine and cutting through his throat, sending the man to the ground, paralyzed and suffocating.

Ruathac straightened his back, stood up and emerged behind the rock where he had been hiding. One more enemy dead. And still thousands to kill.

He pulled out the bolt and cut a good chunk out of the flank of the barbarian. The human had been well-fed, and his meat would be a nutritious dinner. Then he strode up the slope, his feet easily finding the well-known path between stones and crippled trees that clung to the mountain side.

...

**Temple of Spite, east of the Isles of Elithis, three months later**

Balancing on the head of the young sea dragon that swam in obedient circles inside the cavern filled with water to half its height, Sameira sobbed. Little waves clashed against the nose of the serpent-like creature, and sometimes the water covered Sameira's feet, just like her tears covered her cheeks. No one was here to see her cry, since no one except the beastmasters usually entered the lowest parts of the Ark, where the helldrakes and sea dragons were kept.

Sameira was not the type to cry easily. She hadn't cried when she gave birth to the twins; she hadn't cried when the only man she had ever really loved, Hadranir, was carried to his grave.

But this time, the anger and the feeling of being cheated were so great that she couldn't stop the tears from flowing.

She had lost everything – her estate, her beasts, her slaves, her wealth, her children, her husband, her new lover. She only got to keep her life because her powerful relative Anethra Hellbane has spoken for her to Malekith; otherwise she would have been executed like all those that had a connection to the Cult. The Cult of Pleasure was once again forbidden in Naggaroth.

The days of the Purge had been terrible. Their defeat in Ulthuan had left the Druchii hungry for blood and revenge, and the Witchking, a wise and cunning ruler as always, turned the hate of his people towards the enemy within. He let everybody know that the Cult of Pleasure had been working against him and that it was the Cult's fault that the invasion inUlthuan didn't go as planned. Of course, it was rather useful for Malekith that he could claim the gold the Cult followers had brought back from Lustria as his own once the owners were dead, and redistribute it under his old and new loyal minions.

Only a few had survived the Purge. Of course, Morathi, who had started the whole Cult thing, was left untouched. She quickly convinced her son that by leading them to Lustria, she had only tried to give the Cult a harmless direction and to distract the leaders from working against her son.

Sameira was lucky. She had been in Ulthuan with Malekith' forces instead of going to Lustria with the Cult, and this, together with Anethra's patronage, saved her life. But she had to start anew.

She didn't really miss her children, and she felt no affection to Lykaon, having married him only for political and economical reasons; it stung a bit to lose her paramour, with whom she had spent many pleasurable hours, but it was something she would survive, too.

What she really missed were her possessions – and her status.

At least she was still able to work with beasts.

Sameira touched a sensitive spot above one of the many eyes of the sea serpent, and the beast raised its head. She jumped onto the stone edge that lead along the wall of the inner cavern of the Ark with which she was traveling now. The training was over for today.

"You show good control of the monsters, I must say." The voice was male, warm and husky.

"Thank you..." She turned around, and gasped. Her eyes took in the tall figure of the man. He wore a sea dragon cloak, like most corsairs did, and his brow was adorned by a golden, spiked circlet with slender face-guards that were more emphasizing than hiding his high cheekbones. A silky mane of black hair flowed over his shoulders and the scaly collar of the coat. The face was more tanned than that of a typical Druchii, but the aquiline features were unscarred and perfect, only two thin, cruel creases at both sides of the mouth and the hint of weariness in the gray eyes showing that the elf was no youth anymore. He was so handsome that she almost choked on her own words. "Th...th...thank you, Lord Duriath."

Duriath Hellbane grinned, revealing snow-white teeth filed to sharp points. "Welcome on board of the Temple of Spite, young cousin. I hope you and your skills with the beasts will serve me well in our war against the damned Asur on the Isles of Elithis."

...

**Clar Karond, Naggaroth, a week ago**

Laggoran drank the goblet empty. He was a bit nervous about this bet, but he wouldn't show it. The Druchii male sitting at the other table in the area reserved for nobles shot him a questioning look, and Laggoran knew well what it meant. The other elf was thinking the corsair captain crazy.

Probably everybody on the stone and wood benches around the arena did, too.

The monstrous mountain of a human in the arena was flexing its muscles, roaring in its crude tongue. It was a champion among the gladiator slaves, full of battle scars and wearing riveted armor. The man held a heavy double-bladed axe in one hand as if it was a wooden stick. Rumors said that the human was a Norse, a barbarian from the Old World, and had been a famous fighter before being captured by his current owner. He had killed hundreds of opponents in the gladiator fights.

Of course, Laggoran had placed his bet on someone else. And that was why everybody suspected that he was out of his mind.

Laggoran's champion was small, compared to the barbarian. Small, and slender, and looking incredibly fragile. It wore no armor; not even clothing. And it was female. An Asur female, to be precise.

Laggoran had trained her himself instead of relying on beastmasters or slave trainers. Contrary to all these fools in the arena, he knew what fury and deadliness inhabited the long-limbed, wiry body of the High Elf. And he knew that other than the barbarian, she had a real motivation to win this fight.

He held out the goblet to his servant. "More wine."

The gong rang. The fight began.

With a feral growl, the barbarian threw himself on his opponent. The axe described half a circle in the air, but the girl ducked, and only the end of her silver braid was hit by the blade of the heavy weapon, a few cut hairs floating in the air as she lunged forwards to land a blow on the human's thigh with one of her short scimitars.

Laggoran savored the taste of the wine. It was not really expensive, since he was running out of money again, but it was still a good vintage. Just like his gladiator, he thought with a smirk.

He remembered the morning when he decided to have her put back together, healed and trained instead of disposing of her. It had been after the last night he and his former consort Hadranir had spent together. He had offered his lover the Asur slave as the first course, and Hadranir had almost killed her with his play. Laggoran closed his eyes for a moment, thinking about how sweet and docile his beautiful companion's embrace had been afterward; Hadranir had always been so changeable. Sometimes, Laggoran missed him.

Exclamations of surprise all around him woke him from his dreams. He focused on the fight again.

The barbarian, bleeding from several cuts, was moving slower, striking with his axe randomly around him, both enraged and stupefied by the fact that he wasn't able to hit his fast and dexterous enemy. The silver-haired Asur darted back and forth, dancing on tip-toe and jumping aside with the grace of a cat.

The Dark Elf who was Laggoran's opponent in the bet was looking worried now. He should, too – he had a lot to lose. Laggoran had placed everything on one card, and so had the other Druchii. Everything they owned. That meant, that if his opponent won, he would get Laggoran's fleet, the Throned included, and his estate, as well as all his slaves – but if Laggoran won, he would get everything the other elf had. And he had something that Laggoran really wanted. Of course, Laggoran's opponent in this bet was sure that a fragile Asur girl wouldn't be able to defeat his champion.

The price of the bet, if Laggoran won it, was a Black Ark. And for the silver-haired gladiator, the price would be freedom.

The silver-haired girl suddenly leapt up into the air, landing on the shoulders of the barbarian, and slid her scimitar across his neck. The axe tumbled from his hand, and the man collapsed, gurgling blood.

...

**Karond Kar, Naggaroth, seven months later**

Karelion gritted his teeth. It hurt. It really, really hurt.

Tirael held out the strip of linen to him. Alcoholic vapors rose from it. "Press it onto your ear."

"My ear? You mean half of my ear, you imbecile! They cut half of it off!" Karelion growled and pushed the younger Druchii's hand away.

"Well, you shouldn't get them catch you next time." Tirael shook his head.

Karelion snatched the linen strip from his companion's hand. "Maybe you should try and get something to eat for us next time, then."

The younger elf sighed. "I have tried. No one wants to listen to songs and pay for it nowadays. I am no good at stealing... What should I do, hire on a corsair ship?"

"Why not?" Karelion gasped, pressing the linen to his ear, the spirits on it stinging. "Maybe we should both do so."

Tirael looked at the older elf, his eyes dark and unhappy. "I don't like the sea."

"Me neither. But what other possibilities do we have left? We should consider ourselves lucky that they didn't kill us, with that foolish Cult thing our former lord was involved in."

"We could still go to another city and try to become guards or something." Tirael scowled. "You are giving up too easily."

Karelion snorted. "I am not. I am trying to survive."

The younger elf turned his head away. He saw no sense in arguing with his companion. Karelion did get them some food from time to time, after all, even though it meant that he collected scars for each time he was caught cheating at a game of dice or stealing.

Tirael missed his time as a noble, and he missed playing his lute. He missed the time when the Cult of Pleasure was strong and his skills as poet and singer were popular. Now everything had returned to normal, meaning war and raids and worship of Khaine and a decline in culture that disgusted him.

"Come on, don't start crying again." Karelion patted the younger Druchii on the shoulder. "Tomorrow we will go to the docks and try our luck."

...

**Couronne, Bretonnia, now**

The Viscount looked at the dance, bored. Ladies in colorful gowns and knights in their festive attire, all of them clumsy, simple, unwashed brutes, gave him a feeling that was halfway between disgust and mild amusement. The music was ridiculous in its simplicity, and dissonant in his ears. He nipped at the sour apple wine in his heavy goblet and cast a side glance to his wife, who was sitting there, pale and mute.

He grinned; she was probably the only one who had seen through his masquerade, at least partly. Not that she really understood anything. It was more her intuition, the little things she said of which she herself was hardly aware. When she dared to say something in his presence at all.

How pathetic they were; and yet, he needed them for now.

The Viscount stood up and left the hall, passing a tapestry that depicted the Lady of the Lake and a knight kneeling in front of her. These idiots were believing in the fairy-tales the filthy Asrai, the Wood Elves, whispered in their ears, manipulated into being a bulwark against the forces that the Asrai were reluctant to fight themselves. He shook his head. Such short-witted creatures.

Finally in his chambers, he locked the door and closed the window shutters. Hissing a basic spell, he lit up all the candles at the sides of the high copper mirror that was leaned on one of the stone walls. He stepped before it and pulled at his face.

The skin came off, and he breathed in, relieved to be rid of the ugly human mask for a moment.

He had let the knights capture him. They were easily tricked into believing that he was worth being taken captive instead of being killed. When he had skinned their leader, the real Viscount, and put on his hide, they were just as easily fooled by the illusion he had worked through his sorcery.

Wearing a human skin was not something he liked to do. But it was a small price to pay. It was all a part of his plans.

Lykaon grinned, looking into his own burning green eyes in the mirror. He would watch over his son for a couple of years, just to make sure the silly whelp survived. And then he would see what else the Old World had to offer him.

...

**Nuln, Empire, twenty years later**

Darion looked at the flame in his hand with delight. Finally, finally he was not only able to see the colorful winds of magic, but also to bend them to his will. "Balthazar, just look! I have summoned a witchlight!"

The necromancer smiled, absentminded. "Fantastic!" His eyes dropped back to the parchment he was reading.

The elf let his hand snap into a fist, and the magical fire disappeared. He stepped up to the table, looking over his human friend's shoulder. "Is it Dark Language that you are reading there?"

Balthazar nodded.

"Could you teach me how to read it, too?" Darion licked his lips. He was hungry for knowledge. Everything that had to do with magic fascinated him.

"Yes, I could. But weren't we going to attend the ball tonight, the one at the house of your newly found noble companion?"

The elf rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean you have to teach me tonight."

The ball – Darion was actually looking forward to it. With a content smirk, he adjusted his new, gold-embroidered blue robe. It went so well with his long black hair and flawless face. He had paid a lot of gold to a Light Wizard in Nuln for performing the powerful healing spell on him, the spell that removed all his scars. But the gold spent was nothing compared to the happiness that his lost and now found again beauty gave him.

He knew that the eyes of the Dark Prince were on him, now even more than before; and he enjoyed this feeling.

In the shadows, the Keeper of Secrets smiled.

...


End file.
